Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

  Dice pretended to examine his paddle while shooting subtle glances towards the man sitting beside him. He held himself with a sort of childish rendition of etiquette, like a becoming young boy whose mother had just reminded him to sit up straight with a nudge. Candyman peered with that same childish curiosity at the scene outside the tram window, his eyes never seeming to focus on one subject for over a millisecond. (understandable, as the train shot like a bullet between locations.) It almost made sense now- how the asylum personnel regarded him. Barely human enough to be categorized as such, thus referred to as an "it" by the masses. Although dice could wrap his head around the phenomena, he still found it inordinately fucked up.

  And who couldn't? This was a living, breathing human being that they had subjected to, well, basically murder. A fate worse than death and nothing less, Dice considered. He would know better than anyone, as Someone who observed his own half-brother through almost every stage of his descent into this madness, powerless to stop it. His brother was no more of a criminal than the very minds who decide what's a crime. Candyman's story perfectly encapsulates the faults of a society, its inhabitants, and most of all, its creators. It has never once been easier to wish the worst upon its creators.

  Admittedly, there was something about this "Candyman." Something that the man he was before couldn't offer. If it was a trait that he possessed before the subsequent mutation or something new, Dice had no idea. His newfound carelessness allowed for his unforeseen assets to work at their highest potential. He rarely feared longterm consequence, yet always made it out in one piece with his natural skills and charm. And that was the scary part- it was working.

  Dice wasn't oblivious. He knew the intentions behind the mutation, the asylum... and it was terrifying to him. They didn't take in someone so skilled in combat by accident. They wanted a prototype for the perfect murder machine, something intelligent enough to strategize yet couldn't make the choice to disobey, and they already had the first step down at the get-go. Dice wondered if they had already somehow robbed him of his empathy and he was simply putting on an act, ready to kill him at a moment's notice. (-and if his brother could do anything, it was act. whether onstage or for his own benefit, it was one thing Dice had always admired about his big brother. The thought of it all being a facade was morbidly ironic, and devastating enough to make even Dice want to cry.)

  Right now he was alone, vulnerable, and desperate, and hadn't noticed how long he had been staring at the bright yellow bastard until catching him shift uncomfortably and clear his throat. Dice needed to start somewhere. He needed to start from the beginning.

Chapter Text

’’Do you understand time?"

Candyman sat up in thought for a fleeting moment, then nodded. "Call me old-fashioned, but I do take pride in reading analog," he responded, Pulling out a gold pocket watch like a magician revealing a line of handkerchiefs. "quarter to ten," he announced matter-of-factly.

Dice chuckled slightly, not quite sure if he was joking or not. "Impressive. But I meant, like, as a concept," he explained, "Are you aware of the last time we spoke, eye to eye, before the asylum?"

Candyman straightened his gaze on Dice, which threw him off a little. He didn't know he was capable of that, and it felt threatening to say the least. like a predator eyeing its prey. "I can't say I’ve ever remembered you before earlier this month," he admitted, knowing that wasn't what his friend wanted to hear.

"The twenty-second of May," Dice said, directing his gaze to the seats across from them. Today's date. "Four years ago.”

Candyman didn't quite know how to respond, and pretending to would do more harm than good. Instead, he waited for Dice to provide more context, but endured an awkward silence between the two while doing so.

Dice sighed. He remembered asking about when his brother's trial would take place, only for him to insincerely respond with something along the lines of "I'll work it out" Then "It'll be ok" to end a painful memory. Maybe that wasn't a good place to start after all.

With any luck, Dice figured, Maybe the asylum staff had the decency to refer to him with his real name once in a while.

"Does the name 'Cassidy' strike a chord with you?"

Candyman seemed to be more familiar with the subject of this question, even if not by much. "Cassidy. Cass...idy," He wondered aloud, then partially to himself, "now who might she be?"

"He."

"He." Candy corrected immediately. This wasn't a good sign. Dice suddenly felt that same jolt of dread from four years back exactly. He remembered how he selfishly hadn't let his brother get a word in through his confused nonsensical rambling. He remembered being pulled into a hug and knowing something was wrong when he didn't pull away.
Dice had hoped for Candyman to put two and two together immediately. It all seemed so simple to him; Candy's been told about the person he was before (although very vaguely- but really, where the hell does one start with this timeline?) and now he's being fed names he doesn't remember. At this point, Dice felt like grabbing him by his vest lapels and yelling some sense into that big yellow head.

"Can't say it does," Candyman admitted, a hint of guilt festered in his voice at that moment. But being frustrated towards him wouldn't be fair, Dice had to remind himself.

"Listen, Candy... maybe I was a little vague earlier. And for now, I'll continue to be for your sake. But you need to unlearn what you picked up those years in the asylum, and we need to start somewhere soon or you'll only get worse from here." Dice cocked his head up at the illuminated destination indicator at the head of the tram. In neon blue letters, it read "Shine city town square." Candyman grabbed a nearby stanchion with the hook of his cane and hoisted himself onto his feet, then offered a gloved hand toward Dice, who accepted silently and lead the two of them out.

Chapter Text

The evening sky was coated in gray clouds and telephone wire, shielding the few remaining stars light pollution had yet to take out. Town square resided proudly just north of Shine city's center, pulling in a little bit of everything and everyone. The neighborhood was quiet by day, and buzzing with eager guests on their way to see concerts or productions playing in various playhouses and auditoriums by night. Growing up, Dice had been an enthusiastic part of that crowd. While theater wasn't really his thing, his brother constantly landed gigs at just about every company. Some of his fondest memories involved seeing him on the bleachers during school ping-pong tournaments with a full face of stage makeup on and wearing at least one tap shoe. It was always amusing for the other attendants who had grown to expect this behavior so often that they'd save a seat in the top right, dubbed "Cassidy's corner" by nobody in particular.

While Dice was technically standing next to him, he still missed Cassidy.

"Hey, I’ve been here!" Candyman excitedly pointed out, interrupting the familiar sounding tune he had been humming since exiting the tram.

"You don't know the half of it," Dice mumbled reluctantly. They had reached a small apartment complex towering on top of an abandoned shop, where one could barely read the faded letters on the window; (incomprehensible) 's Edible Arrangements. Luckily, The old Candy shop hadn't been bought out by some aspiring small business yet. Although, sometimes the lonely checkered floor and sad, peeling paint job made Dice wish it would already. There were times that he would peer into the glass only to be met with those familiar tiles and blinding white walls, and nothing else. It was the complete absence of anything that fascinated and deeply saddened him all these years.

"I left my room unlocked so I could leave my keys, 'wasn't sure how many hurdles I'd have to jump through to get you here." Dice joked, leading Candyman up a spiral staircase, onto a roof and a metal-fenced balcony dancing a lotus-flower wind chime that rang eerily in the late spring breeze. As promised, the sliding glass door opened seamlessly. As if the teleporting Candyman would let a locked door stop him. Right.

The room was cozily humble, housing a loft bed with a built-in desk to make room for the green ping-pong table taking up three quarters of the space. Almost seven years ago, Dice had been excited to move into his brother's room when he moved out, eager to inherit the bigger space and balcony that looked out over a local skate park. Nowadays he wishes he'd left it longer.

What caught Candyman's eyes, (one of them, at least,) was the near absence of visible flooring. The ground was coated in loose papers, documents, books, and various photos. Amusingly, the ping-pong table was completely bare, the only state Dice would have it in.

Sitting himself in black leather office chair, Dice shuffled a stack of miscellaneous paper on the desk. He would have told Candyman to make himself at home, butthe guy had already achieved peak comfort sitting cross-legged in a neighboring gray bean bag. Four years back, the roles would have been switched. Dice took a breath.
"Cassidy," he began, "meaning 'curly haired.' Irish origins, I believe." He handed his acquaintance a printed photograph with Newsies: opening night written on the back with red marker along with some illegible date. Sure enough, the focal point of the image was a lean, curly-haired man beaming down at a Bouquet of flowers, eyes closed in a genuine laugh behind circular, yellow-lensed glasses. The blurred tip of a blue hat peeked into the corner of the foreground. Candyman's focused gaze was cut short by the angry tapping of a computer key. Dice was impatiently hunched over his laptop, muttering to himself.

"I tried to find an affordable listing for a few newspaper articles from back in the day. 'Hoped some poor sucker old-fashioned enough to have ordered physical copies would put 'em on Ebay for less than they're worth." Dice sighed, then with a seething smile, "So many articles from that era were recalled, cut, or burned in an act of mass censorship. Hell, even seeking out this kind of thing could get me in serious trouble with the law– more trouble than the whole Lethal League schtick has landed me in. God, Candyman, the years I've spent obsessively trying to get my hands on a transcript from your court case-"

Dice halted himself in a mixture of realizing his rambling was going nowhere and the fact that Candyman had seemingly disappeared from his bean bag without a sound. Dice braced himself, preparing to be accidently jumpscared by the yellow anomaly popping out of a wall or something. After a brief moment of silence, he heard the clattering of plastic on wood.

Candyman had wandered from his seat to the ping-pong table, leaning on the edge as he sorted out a game of scrabble.
"Right, okay-" Dice continued, rolling his chair up to the board. If this was what it took to hold Candyman's attention, then he'd better get used to accommodating. "I figured we'd work backwards, like from the moment they took you in and further." He shuffled another uneven stack of papers for no other reason than it made him feel more qualified than he was. Candyman happily played along with Dice's sleuthing act, and pretended like he completely understood every word. The dynamic was certainly getting them nowhere.

"I kept this particular article from back in the day, you know, as a relic of my early days as an outlaw," Dice partially-joked. He tried straightening out the wrinkles on a single sheet of newspaper he'd conjured from the pile. "It's the public service announcement banning the league. This cover alone sent us all in a manic frenzy." He reminisced about the time this news was the biggest problem in his life. He was pretty pissed, but back then, he had a brother he'd vent out his frustrations to whom he knew understood. Someone who didn't see his hobby as an act of rebellion and in fact participated in it himself. And most damming in this moment, someone who wouldn't screw around with random knick knacks while he tried to hold a serious conversation. God, it was like herding cats with this man.

Dice pounded his fist on the ping-pong table, sending the letter tiles flying in an almost comedic manner. Candyman squeaked as held the sides of the table and immediately focused his undivided attention on Dice, and whatever it was his left eye was wandering off to.

"Are you listening to me?" Dice demanded.

Candyman nodded, way too sure of himself."Yeah, yeah.. we're gonna rewind or something- like a movie, but like, longer." He turned away, and then under his breath, "..and tedious."

Dice pretended not to hear his passive-aggressive remark. "Sure, that's one way to look at it."

"So who's this guy?" Candyman tapped the photo containing gleeful-expressioned man. "He's all dirty."

"He's not," Dice explained, "It's makeup."

"He's not very good at it then. "Poor guy looks like he crawled out of a chimney."

Dice chuckled a bit, thinking this might be some gag Candyman was trying out to lighten the mood. He might as well humor him. "It's a costume. He's supposed to be poor, a kid of the street-rat variety, if you will." He explained. That's something they knew all about.

Candyman nodded understandably. "What happened to his leg? Is that part of the costume?" he inquired, noticing the crutch he held under his left arm.
Dice had a harder time answering this one. "Yeah, well... sorta. But he uses aid like that in his everyday life as well. His role just kinda worked out that way. It was part of the reason he was offered it." Paired with his overwhelming stage talent, he admitted to himself.

"Like me!" Candyman piped up, swinging his cane. "You know- I'm like a bike, at least I prefer to think of it that way. When in motion, I'm stable, but I need the support when standing still, like a kickstand." He proudly spun the cane around his gloved fingers.

Dice stared blankly ahead in thought. Huh. Of course, he knew about his brother's hip dysplasia and what it entailed, but he'd never heard it put so simply. The bicycle analogy was easy to understand and entirely correct. He wondered if Cassidy, the real Cassidy, ever thought about it the same way, or if the metaphor was something Candyman had come up with once in the past four years. Maybe Candyman was smarter than he had guessed, and had just found simpler ways to translate complicated concepts into digestible words. After all, how could a Candyman not be well-versed in the art of sugarcoating?

"You know, Candy, there’s a reason for me showing you that photo. To put it bluntly, That's-" Dice halted his sentence. No, it wasn't him anymore. Not in any way that mattered. "..That's the one I was telling you about. The Cassidy fellow. My brother."

Candyman squinted and held up the photograph to compare. "I barely see the resemblance, if I'm being honest." He then lit up, as if he had connected something that had seemed so obvious. "Ah, you had a half-brother, right? Different dads?"

"Moms, actually," was all Dice was able to squeeze in while the man continued with his inquiries.

"How's it like being a younger sibling? Do you two argue often? Or is your relationship built on having each other's back, through thick and thin, 'an all that Hollywood nonsense?" Candyman had begun digging through the stack of papers rapidly as he spoke.

Dice felt himself tense up in anger. Not at Candyman's polite yet rather invasive mannerisms, but more at the thought of his last question. That's how we were supposed to be. That's what they took away from us, just to spit out a defective project as a pathetic consolation prize. Dice usually tried to focus on what could be rather than what could have been, but as of late that mindset had become harder and harder to maintain.

They could never be Hans and Cassidy again. They forever would remain Dice and Candyman.

Candyman looked sympathetically at his friend. Neither of them could visually convey much emotion, (for two very different reasons,) and with that came the gift of understanding someone's shift in attitude at the twitch of a muscle. Candyman could detect a deep sadness within Dice akin to grief, and came to a terrifying yet incorrect realization.

"Oh god, Dice..." he said uncharacteristically softly, "I didn't realize... I'm so sorry."

Dice felt his stomach drop. Candyman couldn't have found out this early, could he? Was it another case of Dice underestimating him?

Candyman continued after a short, painful pause. "He's.. gone, Isn't he?" Candy sped up the delivery of his words. "I'm sorry I can't mourn with you, Dice. I know you want me to remember him. He must've been so important to you, and therefore to me too. Dammit, I wish I could rummage around in my brain and pick out the memories I lost regarding him, I really do. I can't imagine how hard this is for-"

Dice cut his pitying short while he felt a harrowing weight being lifted off his shoulders. "No, Candy, it's not..." he paused, putting something together. Holy shit, Candyman was almost spot-on. It was agonizing how close he had gotten to the root of the entire ordeal yet missed it tragically, like some fucked-up circus act. Cassidy was important to Dice.

Dice was beaten down by Candyman's lack of memory. He would be lying to deny Candyman’s wild assumptions.

"Yeah, I guess he is gone." Dice acted as if he gave in to that fact, experiencing the acceptance stage of grief. "And you're right to pity me, he meant a great deal, but I promise I don't need it. It was a while ago and I've had time to adjust," (If "adjusting" included four years of constant sleuthing to understand where your brother was taken and how to get him back,) "-But I appreciate the sympathy."

"Oh jeez, I've been staring into the eyes of a deadman for the past ten minutes or so. Even if it was through those golden-tinted glasses. 'Quite liked the look of those, honestly." Candyman rambled to himself.

Sympathy.

The most recent of his words echoed back and forth in Dice's head.

Sympathy.

An overwhelmingly hopeful thought raced through Dice's mind, blurring the white lie he had just told his only brother.

Candyman showed sympathy. A human emotion that no mindless-murder machine should contain. Dice gave into his own emotions, surprising Candy with a warm embrace of which Candyman was happy to reciprocate, although he didn't quite understand. Dice buried his face into the man's shoulder, hoping to discreetly wipe his tears on his brother's sleeve. However, the tactic was unsuccessful with the addition of Dice's glasses getting in the way.

"I knew it, Candy. I knew those bastards at the asylum could never break you, never take away your humanity." Dice rang, his voice breaking in a moment of pure vulnerability on his end. He pushed himself out of the hug and stood eye-to-eye with Candyman, his hands firm on both candy's forearms. "I'm not surprised. It'l take more than a mere half-decade to break an Inel." Dice slipped out proudly.

"A what now?" Candyman did not match Dice's flood of sudden emotion.

Ah, shit. Dice realized what he had revealed. In his mind, he'd die before he'd reveal his first name to Candyman. Not unless he could revert him to his original self. The thought of this new entity calling him 'Hans', or just uttering the name whatsoever made Dice sick to his stomach. That name was reserved for Cassidy. And if Cassidy was truly gone forever, then so be it that Dice never hears that name again.

"Nevermind. Sometimes I speak without thinking, you know," Dice drew his gaze away from Candyman, who glared at him suspiciously. If there was one thing he knew about this 'Dice' character, it was the amount of thought process he would go through to get a single sentence out. He really was the smartest person he knew, and he had met some exceptionally intelligent doctors back at the asylum. Granted, he might have developed a few biases the moment the doctors would jab him with all different kinds of needles.
Of course, one thing about his own character was his lack of consistency. He could never hold anything close to a grudge.

"Well, I'm happy to hear I've still got that asset going for me," Candyman said, making an obviously sarcastic statement that somehow sounded so genuine. "Hey, there's another one! Happy. I can still feel that too. And that 'ain't something you'd find on some brainwashed assassin, no sir."

Dice smiled and took off his glasses, wiping them with his shirt as he let out a yawn.

Candyman stood tall, stretching his whole body. "That's my cue, buddy. As an empathetic individual, I care about you maintaining a healthy sleep schedule!" he announced with a wink.

Dice complied and climbed into his loft bed, still a little uneasy by how heavy the lies he had felt forced to tell could potentially be. Even so, he tried to look forward.

"Feel free to make yourself at home in the spare bedroom," Dice informed Candyman, wincing at the cruel irony. He wished he could still call it their home.

"Gladly. Now get some rest, you'll need it if you plan to arise and seize the day!" Candyman proclaimed heroically with a chuckle.

Dice was caught off guard. "Did you just quote...?" he stopped, seeing Candy had already flicked off the lights with the hook of his cane and teleported himself to his temporary chamber. He decidedly shook it off for the night. He'd deal with existentialism in the morning.

His mind began asking unwelcome questions as he closed his eyes. Great.

His exhaustion had just begun to consume him as nonsensical theories crossed his consciousness, one too prominent to ignore;

How the hell did he know exactly where the spare room was?

Chapter Text

the warm scent of freshly ironed clothes wafted into Dice's room- meaning Candyman, in the proper family member manner, hadn't closed the door upon leaving. Dice blindley felt around his bedding for wherever his glasses might have ended up, eventually finding them dangerously close to the loft bed's railing. Climbing down the ladder, he got the sense that his room was more bare than usual, and found it much easier to navigate. The documents and photographs were still sprawled across the floor, yet the space seemed less suffocating that morning.

Dice stumbled into the hallway and down the spiral staircase, following the smell of sizzling linen and sound of a quick-talking radio host discussing some bizarre recent event, probably staged to take everyone's minds off humanity turning to shit.

Speaking of humanity's inevitable downfall, Candyman was in the kitchen with an ironing board in front of him and unsorted laundry to his right on the counter.

"you’re... ironing socks?" Dice slurred out in a tired haze, contrasting Candyman's natural morning person attitude.

"Well good morning to you too, Dice," candyman joked. "And yes, while it doesn't do much, who doesn't love a pair of warm socks?"

Dice nodded, wondering if that was some passive-aggressive allusion to his own footwear preference. Candyman unfolded a magenta button-up and laid it out, continuing his work while mumbling loose song lyrics.

"Did you get those off my floor?" Dice gestured through the mountain of familiar-looking clothing. Candyman nodded. "You're welcome. Now why don't you return the favor and make me some coffee?" He responded playfully.

"I prefer tea," Dice mentioned, matching his light-hearted teasing.

"Then I guess you have two tasks to do."

“Touché," Dice made his way to the kettle.

“How do you take your coffee?” Dice asked with his back turned.

“Black.”

Dice paused, "What?”

“My coffee, I take it black. don't yuck my yum.” Candy almost sounded offended.

"No cream? no... sugar?” Dice questioned again, as candy insisted, “Nah.”

Dice Shrugged and started towards the coffee machine, before turning around once more. "I'm sorry, I just– are you serious?”

Candyman bursted into a fit of laughter. "no, silly, of course not," he admitted in between breaths. He lightly prodded Dice in the back with his cane. “C’mon, Lighten up a little! I haven't seen that smile all day.”

“It’s 7:30,” Dice huffed.

“It’s never too early!”

Dice began searching the premises for the long-forgotten Columbian blend that he kept for the few guests that would turn up, including his father who he would only catch between business trips.

Halfway through his routine, his eyes wandered to the man tending to his laundry- he sported a white, sleeveless undershirt that tucked neatly into his usual high-rise trousers. The reveal was almost anti-climactic, the way he hid basically nothing but his usual barely-defined shoulders with the only nuance being his complexion. There was no badass scarring. Of course, Dice hadn’t HOPED for something like that, he just figured it would make for a good story, or at least give him some insight to how exactly the mutation process worked.

Candyman didn’t make it out of the facility completely unscathed, Dice noticed upon observation. Some sort of scar, or rather a dent, was etched onto his right collarbone.

“Holy fucking shit, dude.” Dice didn’t often use such unsophisticated phrases with excessive cursing like this. Only in dire situations when there’s really nothing else to say.

Upon closer expectation, Dice could read the code “C324” that had been branded onto his chest. The blemish was dark orange in color, a good few shades darker than the surrounding flesh. Although the marking was fully healed and didn’t look that far from a typical tattoo, the implications were revolting to Dice.

He had a plethora of questions, but Dice ended up getting only one out (arguably the most obvious and useless), “Did that hurt?”

“Hmm?” Candyman hadn’t noticed his friend silently analyzing the wound. Dice reached out to trace over the text, but curled his hand away, having second thoughts. Candyman peered down in casual realization. “Oh. I mean, I’d think so. Probably. I hate to repeat myself with this same phrase, but I really don’t remember.”

Dice decided that was technically good news, as wellbeing was the top priority. But he couldn’t shake the anger it summoned within him. If anything, it implied that the branding took place before mutation, before Candyman himself came to be. It implied that Cassidy had suffered the violation rather than Candyman, and that there were people out there willing to do this to a man who still held all his humanity. There was no justifying this, and most definitely no sugarcoating.

Of course, all his fuming exasperation only took place in his mind. On the outside, Dice tried to come off as sympathetically curious. He wasn’t quite sure if he was hiding his seething, though. He unfortunately didn’t share whatever convincing performance gene his brother had been granted.

“C-3-2-4,” Dice wondered aloud as he swiftly put the pieces together in his mind. “The padded cell they had you in, it was room 24 on the third floor.”

“Quick thinking, Sherlock.” Candyman brushed off, giggling. “Here’s a toughie: can you guess what the ‘C’ stands for?” he teased.

Dice remained in his deep analytical state. “Cassidy.” he responded.

Candyman paused for a second, amused. “Cass- what? No! I guess the question was tougher than I thought. My mistake, Professor Dice.”

“Candyman. I meant Candyman.” Dice confessed profusely with a sigh, breaking away from his thoughts.

“Gold star for you!”

The coffee machine gradually drained and the kettle screeched. Retrieving two porcelain mugs from the top shelf, Dice poured the two of them their respective drinks.

“Cheers to Dice’s superior intellect and my undying sympathy!” Candyman remarked, raising his mug. His cup of Joe overflowed and poured out onto his wrist, sizzling as it made contact “Augh, Dammit, dammit… I don't need another scorch mark, thank you.” On that note, he unplugged the iron.

Dice wished he could turn his woes into punchlines the way Candyman could.

Dice clanked his cup against Candyman’s.

Chapter Text

“Where’re we heading, captain?” Candyman asked from the passenger side of his friend’s car, fiddling with the seat adjuster much to the driver’s annoyance.

Dice Kept his gaze ahead. “Downtown.”

“Aye aye,” Candyman tipped his hat in a knowing fashion, feeling no particular need to question any further. His askew eyes glazed over the vehicle’s interior. “It’s been quite a while since I’ve ridden in a car without bars dividing the rows,” he remarked. His gloved finger traced the dashboard’s buttons and gadgets curiously, halting at the volume dial.

“What've we got? Jazz?” Candyman inquired, pressing and rotating the dial. A weather man’s peppy voice tuned in from the radio.

“We’ve got showers coming our way, folks. Be careful on the sleek roads tonight and dress accordingly!” the host chirped. Dice mumbled curses. He hadn’t packed any extra layers or so much as an umbrella and wasn’t sure how late they’d be out.

The station host continued. “-stay safe out there. Now we're bringing you an oldie but a goody from Christina Aguilera! Take it away, Christine~”

Candyman piped up as a lady’s voice began chanting his name. “Would ya look at that! I think she likes me,” he joked over a myriad of brass instruments. His chair squeaked as he jerked it back.

“Stop that,” Dice ordered, but his friend didn’t comply. “What happened to ‘aye aye captain’?” he asked after Candyman made his seat recline again, then spring back up.

“I think you’re more first-mate material. A backseat driver of sorts.” Candyman admitted. Dice huffed, though knowing he meant nothing serious by it. Still, Dice kept order in this godforsaken household of two. As has been asked so many times before, What the hell was Candyman talking about?

“-and for my first order of business, I insist on taking the wheel!” Candyman attempted to deepen his voice to no avail. It was pathetically hilarious.

Dice scoffed. “What? No! You literally don’t know where I’m even-” he cleared his throat, “--where WE are even trying to go. And can you even legally drive?”

“I can’t ‘legally’ do anything but sit in a padded cell.”

Well shit, he had a valid point.
Dice nodded. “Fair. I can’t remember a time when either of us were NOT wanted criminals. And you can barely think of a time where either of us were anything but… this.” Despite the depressing thought, he smiled. There was a shred of comfort in it all. “But this isn’t my car, so no.”

“It isn’t?” Candyman looked around. “Whose is it, then?”

Dice went silent for a second. That was an extremely complicated question that had just put him in an extremely awkward position.

It is– it WAS –his brother’s.

Christiana Aguilera moaned.

Chapter Text

Dice’s favorite thing about shine city? Nobody would bat an eye at a mutated, inhuman creature sporting the getup of a 1920’s pimp.

The place was crawling with artificial Intelligence to the point where you couldn’t tell the difference, and it was widely debated if there WAS any tangible difference. Police drones infested the streets like locusts and emitted sound pollution like cicadas. The women were shameless, and god dammit, good for them. Not to mention the reptilian inhabitants, valued members of society they were.

Dice’s least favorite thing about shine city? Nobody would bat an eye at the mutation process and wildly inhumane procedures inflicted on the “creature”.

It was an unfortunate reality that Neither of the two could wait to exploit.

After a good twenty minutes of Dice explaining that the phrase is indeed “Land ho” and not Candyman’s understandably misconstrued version, (with him stating “Land whore” much too confidently), the vehicle came to a halt in a shaded alleyway.

“Don’t open your door too far, this place is pretty narrow,” Dice explained.

“ ‘wouldn’t be that way if you would have parked on the street,” Candyman remarked, “It’s like you're begging for crippling claustrophobia.”

“Tough shit,” Dice mumbled in response, slamming his door a little too hard for his liking. He cringed at the sound. One could never be too cautious of police drones around those parts, and a license plate was all they needed to track the escapee and his peace-keeping partner in crime.

Then again, a lone car hiding away in the shadows of an alleyway seemed highly suspicious in theory. Even so, Dice wasn’t the type to second guess himself. His job for now was to keep Candyman in check, and for someone running an objectively insane operation, he felt confident in his own sanity. For now.

The downtown air smelled of gasoline and a distinctive metallic scent that Dice could never pinpoint. Apparently, Dice had heard, one’s sense of smell can bring them back to a specific time or place because of nerves connecting to the brain or something. Dice had only passed psychology with a solid C and forged doctor’s notes.

What he was basically getting at was whoever designed Lemon-Head over there knew what they were doing.

Most of Shine City was, well, shiny. Whether the frequent rain had cast a glossy coating atop every surface, or it was just the dystopian landscape filling the town to the brim with new-fangled machinery, almost everything bore a sleek, metallic luster. That was what made the playhouse stand out the way it so notably did. The theatre stood as the tallest one-story building on the block, Towering over the apartments and cafes surrounding it with cream concrete pillars wrapped in hand-chiseled grape vines. This particular establishment was larger than the one near Dice’s place, and had hauled in more sophisticated patrons with admiration for the performing arts rather than family and friends of the actors who otherwise wouldn’t have voluntarily spent money on tickets. Dice fell somewhere in the former category.

Candyman took some steps back, either taking it all in or feeling slightly intimidated. Or maybe, as was the case of what direction he was looking in, it was a mixture of both.

If Dice had remembered correctly, the building remained open to the public, sans performances. Dice stood in front of the wooden doors (REAL maplewood, not that plastic mock-up material that would arrogate everything), and drew it open effortlessly. It creaked backwards to reveal the unlit lobby and its iconic 30-feet ceiling sporting a frivolous glass chandelier. Its crystal-cut pendants reacted immediately to the outside light, almost blinding Dice and–

Candyman?

Dice spun 360 degrees, scanning every crevice to no avail. His friend, despite being a walking hazard sign, had a habit of disappearing at any chance he got. Sometimes literally.

Dice entered the lobby with a newfound sense of unease, biting his lip as he tried to find a light switch amongst the many framed NOW PLAYING posters decorating the interior. His searching led him deeper into the suffocating darkness as he felt around for any potential furniture in his way. He shuddered when his knuckles dragged across what felt like a marble surface, possibly a ticket booth? He stepped back and observed what little he could see of it, noting a glass pane that could only be seen at a certain angle as the dim light from the door reflected off. He slid the window open, hoping to find a switch somewhere in the booth.

Emanating from the inside was a dull static noise that seemed to grow louder as Dice leaned into the window. Whether this or complete silence would have been more eerie, Dice couldn’t decide. The crackling continued its ascent until stopping abruptly when Dice reached an arm into the darkness.

Instantly, his wrist was captured in the unforgiving clutch of some unknown entity lurking behind the glass divider.

Dice had never screamed before. Not since he was ten, at least. Nothing bigger than a sharp gasp had ever escaped his lips in the last nine years. Until now.

Dice let out a blood-curdling cry that, while only lasting a millisecond, could stick in one’s mind for weeks. As he jolted all his weight backwards trying to escape the grasp, another disconcerting sound drew from inside the booth.

The void laughed at him, mercilessly mocking his struggling– only it wasn’t the void, Dice came to discover.

The click of a light switch cut through the tension like a knife, illuminating the ticket booth and relieving Dice of his spontaneous nyctophobia. Candyman released his grasp on his friend’s wrist to place a hand over his mouth as he tried to contain his laughter, his volume growing with the unamused expression plastered across Dice’s Face.

“Keep the tormenting for your inevitable Scare Actor career, will you?” Dice rolled his eyes. He humorously scoffed at the thought; who knows how much horror fanatics would get a kick out of the guy? He had the performing arts degree, and now he had the permanent mask. It was honestly ingenious.

Too bad he was created with actual murder in mind. Godammit, why did all Dice’s thoughts have to end on such sour notes!

This particular train of thought was interrupted as soon as Candyman morphed his way through the wall and planted himself beside Dice. He coughed away his last few chuckles then cleared his throat. “Thanks for that, buddy. I honestly had no idea where the hell I was until hearing you approach,” He admitted, dusting something off his friend’s shoulder. “The scare was an afterthought. I got ya pretty good, didn’t I? Do ya think I could land a role here?” He tapped one of the nearby posters with the base of his cane. It appeared to feature a silhouette of Boris Karloff in the notable screen capture of his monochrome monster. Green text splayed across his forehead, reading “Mary Shelley's Classic Novel, Reborn! FRANKENSTEIN; A New Musical'' with a luminescent violet outline.

“I can’t imagine there’d be many tap numbers in that one,” Dice replied in his usual monotone, taking the moment to scan the lobby, looking for any potential relics of his brother’s thespian career. The interior hadn’t changed that much, or maybe Dice had just adjusted to the slow progression over the last four years. He hadn’t visited frequently, but dropped by to help with sewing when he had the time, as well as a head full of stress that could only be soothed by therapeutic stitching. It was a guilty pleasure of his.

It also happened to be what he was here for. Well, not entirely. It was more like WHO he was here for.

Dice tugged on a distracted Candyman’s sleeve cuff, drawing his attention away from the alluring production advertisements. Dice led the two of them through an open archway and up a red-carpeted ramp with the small amount of light draining in from the lobby.

It was Dice’s turn to be asking questions now, “so, uh, about the teleportation thing,” He began, struggling to put his confusion into words, “you mentioned how you had gotten lost by sending yourself to the ticket booth– Do you not always know where you’ll end up? Y’know, when you do… that?”

Candyman nodded, “I can’t just think of a location then end up there, Dice.” he replied, humored as if it was an obvious fact that everyone ought to know, “I can only determine distance. Like one of those pixelated arcade games where you have to create a bridge just long enough to get your character to another surface. Ooooh, can we go to the arcade after this?”

Dice ignored his derailment. “You're a real anomaly Candyman, You know that?” He smiled at his acquaintance. Maybe he should keep a notebook on him to keep track of any new discoveries he uncovers about the man. Except that’s exactly what the asylum staff probably did for years and Dice would die before stooping to their level.

Either Candyman beamed, or it was just the angle Dice was looking at him from. “That’s what the doctors say!”

Chapter Text

The scarlet ramp let off in an unpresuming doorway, the type purposely built to go unnoticed unless needed by an actor or crew member. A soundproof hallway divided the audience and the green room (which was painted blue to Dice’s deep-rooted annoyance) with carpeted walls and a liminal eeriness.

While the building was only a single story, the costume crew had found a loophole– one not made of actual thread for once. A loft had been creating using bits and pieces of elevated sets from past productions; most of it being large gothic cathedrals from the backdrop of “the Hunchback of Notre Dame'' airbrushed to look like stone, lit by the brass overhead lamps that swung over “Hadestown”. It is its own experience, debatably grander than anything you’d see on stage. Although the balconies provided convenient storage, most of the tayloring handiwork occurred underneath the structures, as was taking place at that very moment.

The seamstress was a pale woman around thirty, maybe older, hunched over the trim of a thick petticoat in a deep concentration. Her feathery, layered hair was silvery-white with prominent caramel roots that bled into a failed dye-job as gracefully as a fish out of water. A melancholy choir belted latin hymns from a bluetooth speaker to her left over what sounded like church bells, matching the brooding cathedral scenery appropriately.

“Hans!” She gasped, her peppy tone contrasting the eerie environment she was lurking in, “Thank God you’re here, our dancers rip up these skirts like classified documents. I could use an extra set of hands or… two?” She acknowledged Candyman trailing behind, stopping to feel the sequins on the rolls of fabric.

Dice took a breath, ready to introduce his friends to each other; although wasn’t yet sure how’d he go about it. Before any words came out, the seamstress cut him off.

“Your’e wearing my vest!” She squealed at Candyman, jumping from her stool and clapping her hands gleefully. “I had to make twenty of those bastards before dress rehearsal for A Chorus Line, and this was before I had dear, sweet Hans to assist me. I’m happy to see they’re still useful,” She studied the cian lapels on Candyman’s vest, then knocked on the faux cathedral pillar, all while not stopping for a breath. “Can you believe this place can afford sets as durable as these, yet refuse to hire another tailor? Talk about busted priorities. It’s like our own little Tri-Government down here, isn’t it? There’s some social commentary for ya, sport–”

The woman drew her hands away from Candyman’s attire, seemingly recognizing that she had been meaninglessly ranting to a complete stranger who, unlike Dice, hadn’t learned to tune her out. She quickly offered a hand to which Candyman welcomed his own.

“Cienna Payne, at your sew-vice. Sorry, I tried to say ‘service’ but with ‘sew’ instead of ‘serve’. But now I realize how stupid that sounds. Apologies.”

Her terrible wordplay got a genuine laugh from Candyman regardless. “Candyman. It’s certainly a pleasure, ma’am.”

Dice considered the simplicity of the two’s interaction. They seemed exceptionally natural and comfortable with each other, as if this wasn’t their first introduction. And to be fair, it indeed wasn’t. Cassidy and Cienna weren’t exactly as inseparable as him and his brother, but they were certainly more than acquaintances. It was usually easy to keep Cassidy’s predicament a secret around anyone else, as Dice was naturally quiet and reserved and frankly thought very few people even deserved to know. Although a close friend and mentor, Miss Payne was not one of them.

“Do you need it tailored, darling? Maybe cinched a bit back here?” Cienna bunched the back of the vest together, tightening the already well-fitted garment. “I could give you some spare buttons as well. We just ordered some gorgeous opal ones-”

“None of that today, Cienna.” Dice interrupted, “Has this place received anything in the mail yet? Maybe a paperback novela or two?” He had begun using the playhouse as a P.O. box for the past few years, paranoid of his mail being monitored or ordering patterns used as evidence against him. Nothing illegal, of course, but those recalled articles could paint his intentions as unlawful. Not that they WEREN'T, in all fairness.

“Oh! ‘Physics of the Impossible’, right?” Cienna dug around in a pile of fabric scraps, “Michio Kaku. I knew this was your mail, you’re the only one smart enough in this facility to be into this kind of thing, let alone own a physical book.” She pulled a thick publication from under several layers of colored textiles, and handed it to Dice.
The book sported a kaleidoscopic cover of purple and blue, overlapped by a large, intimidating title font. “Physics of the Impossible; A Scientific Exploration Into the World of Phasers, Force Fields, Teleportation, and Time Travel" by Michio Kaku. Just reading those words granted Dice a short-lived sense of intellectual superiority, something he shut down as soon as he became conscious of it. Hubris was intellect’s worst enemy, yet they seemed to work hand-in-hand.

“You're welcome. Now in return, how about we get to those petticoats?” Cienna pointed back to her workplace, draped in fluffy piles of open-weave cotton. “Wip stitch. And use the gold thread. We need to save the white for- “

The seamstress’s voice drained out as Dice pulled up a leather stool and began searching for a pin cushion. The establishment took pride in its lack of robotic employees, a rare case where manual labor was necessary. Paying human workers was far more expensive, but it made the place feel warm and nostalgic of a time nobody could recall or comprehend. Maybe a time where there were more birds in the sky than police drones. Here, where the only employed androids were the sewing machines, Dice could feel a type of peace that he couldn’t even find in his own home. He enjoyed some high-stake competition to an extent, yet that was still something he couldn’t determine whether he had a natural knack for or was learned from years of Lethal League hijinx.

“So, how do you know my Hans?” Cienna questioned Candyman, who still had at least one eye focused on her. “-or do you still know him as ‘Dice’? Don’t worry, it takes a while to get on a first-name basis with that guy.”

Candyman looked to Dice, who silently authorized him with a nod. “He tells me we’re… old friends? I don’t exactly follow the whole story, but I’m just happy to be here. I think. That’s also something he tells me,” Candyman answered.

Good job making me sound like some evil dictator, Dice thought. Candyman was just the kind of person who needed his emotions understood FOR him. There was nothing unethical about that mindset. Not in the long run, anyway.

Cienna nodded, looking like the only thing she understood was how few people must understand him.

“Well, just know that kid doesn’t know everything like he prefers to think,” She added after a beat, and tapped her temple. “Don’t forget to question everything.”

“Uh, hey, Candy,” Dice awkwardly jumped in from his table, “Why don’t you find yourself something in the storage loft? I’ve seen some one-of-a-kind garments up there just begging to be dusted off.”

“Ah, is my affiliation for fine tailoring so obvious?” Candyman tugged at his pin-striped sleeve. “See you in, say, three hours,” he exaggerated before merging into the nearby drywall, then disappearing completely.

Cienna gaped at the newly empty corner. “Wow.”

Dice smiled. “Yeah. He does that sometimes.”

Chapter Text

The ruffled trim of each petticoat was a bitch to dig through. Dice could barely tell the difference between a tear in the seams and a questionable stylistic choice created purely to torture the poor souls subjected to mending them. In his defense, his mind wasn’t exactly focused on the task at hand.

At the expense of his posture, Dice loomed over the open book in his lap. A physical book. Where secrets were mutually kept between the reader and writer with no media interference, text printed inside the folds rather than projected on some device. Devious.

The contents weren’t quite as easy to navigate, of course. Seriously, who numbers pages in Roman numerals? And at the top center?? The mysterious oligarchy of three would never blatantly burn books, that would be way too on-the-nose for such a “morally gray” trio. But they sure as hell could require printed novels to be as inaccessible and frustrating as possible, as it was the little things that kept censorship alive and well.

The book was open to page ‘XVI”, whatever that pretentious bullshit translated to, on the typical 4x6 paper. If the Times New Roman font was any smaller, Dice would have to switch perscriptions.

“- In this book I divide the things that are "impossible" into three categories. The first are what I call Class I impossibilities. These are technologies that are impossible today but that do not violate the known laws of physics. -”

Dice halted his threadwork as he considered the text. Ok, that did sound like Candyman. Dice had been suspending his disbelief regarding the mutant’s abilities and overall existance for too long, simply because it was easier. But a man couldn’t avoid a lingering question forever, and god dammit, Dice wasn’t going to try now.

First, he had to consider the historical context. He pulled his hand free from the rough folds and folded the bottom left pages, searching for the publication date.

2008. Now that was over a century ago. Luckily, theoretical physics and philosophy had no expiration date.

Dice would, in fact, refer to Candyman’s abilities as impossible. Wallporting was the kind of thing that you had to see to believe, and even then it was admittedly hard. But defying the known laws of physics, it did not, Somehow. It wouldn’t be an observable action if it did. It was just another phenomenon to be discovered.

“-So they might be possible in this century, or perhaps the next, in modified form. They include teleportation, antimatter engines, certain forms of telepathy, psychokinesis, and invisibility.-”

Candyman could achieve at least two of those examples. Without much regard for the already used copy, Dice folded the top right corner.

“I’m glad I’m not the only one with questions,” Ceinna whispered, sending a chill up Dice’s spine. “I’m thinking it might be a matter of atom arrangement. Y’know, like the idea that you could put your hand through the wall if their arrangement was just right, against all odds.”

Dice chuckled and bowed his head. “That’s just something elementary students ask their science teachers to waste time in class. It’s not factual,” He answered condescendingly. He may or may not have been one of those students.

“I wouldn’t restrict myself to the known facts. We're advancing to the point of, well, that Candy-boy.” Cienna supposed, to which Dice didn’t correct her for his own amusement, but acknowledged her valid point. Dice wasn’t the kind to consciously submit to authority, but he hadn’t considered questioning education. Maybe society had progressed to a higher level than ‘they’ were willing to reveal yet. Everything Candyman demonstrated was already bastardizing science, experiments like him, if there were many others, remained heavily moderated for a reason.

He hated admitting it, but Dice was all about conspiracy.

“- The second category is what I term Class II impossibilities. These are technologies that sit at the very edge of our understanding of the physical world. If they are possible at all, they might be realized on a scale of millennia to millions of years in the future -”

Considering Candyman’s, well, existence, one could assume he fits within the first class of impossibilities. But keeping in mind when the study was written, Dice wondered if the titles still remained relevent. To his knowledge, Dice was living in the future that Kaku was describing. So impossibilities more or less meant scientific breakthroughs that had been made far earlier than the author’s predictions.

Originally, Dice had discovered these theories through carefully selected passages assigned to him during his junior year in highschool. He remembered trying to read between the lines of a single paragraph projected on his phone, devoid of any useful context that would have left the honors physics class with further questions. Hypothetical follow-up points had been circulating in his mind ever since.

“I’m just saying, as you get older you’ll understand that nothing is truly off limits these days,” Cienna pulled up an office chair and plucked a needle from her tomato pin-cushion. “I can hardly tell what's fake news and what isn’t, it all seems so plausible. I think we've reached a point where humanity is flat-out bored. People are desperate for something new, whether they have to make it up or not.”

Dice knew all about that. The oh-so-dangerous ball game birthed from kids who wanted the thrill of a middle-school gym class mixed with major league baseball was crashing down on him. Who knew having fun came with such a high price?

Safety leagues attempting to recall such an influential sport like it was a Kinder Surprise Egg had the backlash coming, though.

Dice could see Cienna open her mouth then promptly close it through his peripherals. Okay, pulling out a book with such an extroverted individual willing to converse with you was probably a dick move.

“So, how’s your niece?” Dice offered, attempting to sound genuine as he reached for another petticoat.

“You tell me. I’m pretty sure you saw her last,” Ceinna answered. Dice cringed at his incompetence in starting conversations. “Right, uh- does she visit often?” He asked as half-heartedly as his first question.

“She Came in to pick up a sun hat a few months back. The sun hasn’t shown since March, though. All in the name of fashion,” She laughed as she swept up some loose safety pins. “She looks great in yellow, though. Maybe it’ll become her thing. I’ve actually set aside some pieces she would like.”

Dice nodded, briefly looking down at his book in a poor attempt at subtlety. However, he was only able to catch a glimpse at the ever so exciting words “Hyperspace Travel” and “Wormholes” before Cienna jumped in once more.

“Okay, it’s my turn to ask about Soñata now,” she announced, adding her usual unnecessary “ñ” to her niece’s name for some reason unknown to Dice. “Is she still ‘too good for the stage’ but ‘made for the spotlight’?”

“I know I haven’t beat her in a match yet, you’ll be proud to hear.” Dice laughed in response. It wasn’t that he was intimidated by her or something. It wasn’t the ‘weapon’ of choice that determined one’s skill, it was the approach, of course. If Dice didn’t know any better, he’d say Sonata was confensating for her lack of effective technique.

Except he did know better, and was mature enough to admit that it was not his paddle that was no match for her elaborate stereo-hammer. It was his combat skills against her own quick thinking.

“I could have guessed,” Cienna nodded with comically undeserved pride. “All she’s shared with me is the impossible number of gigs she’s offered at clubs or street festivals– all that jazz. If what she tells me is true, Sonata’s a desired name in the modern dance industry.”

“Very talented,” Dice added dismissively, although he meant it. Excelling in both sports AND performing arts (A term she detested despite her hobbies technically falling into the criteria) was a skill he had only seen in his brother before meeting the locally beloved Sonata. The two shared a mutual friendship up until his brother’s arrest – or more accurately, his abduction – that resulted in a complicated one-sided affiliation. Understandably, the poor girl couldn’t find an inroad with the man since. Even if the knowledge of his mutation was unavoidable to someone within Dice’s social circle, Sonata would be in on the secret regardless. She was more than deserving.

Dice dropped his head once more, his glasses drifting down his nose.

“ – so many technologies in science fiction are dismissed by scientists as being totally impossible, when what they actually mean is that they are impossible for a primitive civilization like ours. – ”

Dice couldn’t help but smile smugly at the page. He had to remind himself that the study was published even before anti-gravity technology was utilized. Continuing to refer to modern civilization as “primitive” felt silly, although the term may be correct in a decade or two. Realistically, when humanity (a word that became more vague every day) lays on the brink of extinction after squeezing out the last few scraps of natural resources, many would blame the “great” minds that made breakthroughs similar to the ones described as ‘CLASS II” impossibilities. There was a price to everything, after all.

Cienna tried to hide her smile, attempting a mature and serious expression that crept into a grin despite her efforts. “I have to make it clear that I don’t CONDONE participating in that game. I know I bring it up a lot, but…”

“But ‘I know more than anyone about the risks I continue to take’ ?” Dice cut her off through a sigh. He wasn’t mad at Cienna, as she just wished Dice the best, but he could do without her bringing Cassidy’s situation up every time the Lethal League is mentioned. That was, of course, what little she KNEW about the situation.

The woman spoke softly. “Hey, please remember that you aren’t obligated to carry out your brother’s legacy. I know you two were close, but-”

Her condolences were cut short once again, although in a less malicious manner. “Come on, you're making it sound like he's dead or something. Corrective detention isn’t a life sentence.”

Cienna bowed her head in defeat. For what felt like the first time, Dice considered the impact his brother’s disappearance had on someone other than him, leading to a weight of guilt sinking into his shoulders. He felt like some barricade of ignorance had shattered.

For an extended beat, the two sat in a silence broken by Dice speaking uncharacteristically meek. The phrase was simple, “Do you miss him?”

There it was, another breakthrough. That wasn’t a question Dice thought he’d find himself asking anyone, as vague as it was. Cienna, of course, saw this as an awkward segway into more small talk.

“Everyone in this town does, Hans. Kids miss stopping by his store after school everyday. This company, and a hell lot of others, miss their favorite casting decision. And I’d imagine the whole ‘Lethal League’ ring is suffering without their star player. I don’t exactly know how that works, though.” She had halted sewing all together and was completely focused on Dice, who had heard this all before.

He didn’t understand it. Even if a majority was under the impression that his brother was busted for some petty ball game crime or drug trafficking bullshit (In this day and age, People didn’t always jump to the conclusion that a “candyman” made his living off the sweet market. The implications didn’t apply to Cassidy, thank God, but rumors only grew), Dice couldn’t comprehend how so many people who claimed to care about the man would take the reports at face value. The reports fabricated by the very minds that created the predicament.

If so many hadn’t been so dismissive, maybe things would be different. Maybe justice would have been served. Maybe Cassidy, with all his internal and external attributes, would still be here.

Cienna let out a sudden squeal and clapped her hands in delight. Dice cocked his head up to see Candyman, who had dramatically draped himself in a long, pearly silk robe lined with an excessive amount of feathers.

“I don’t think the world is ready for me yet, do you?” Candyman drew the robe’s skirt in, sending a swarm of white feathers raining down on Dice, who nodded in amused approval. He had taken off his pinstripe button-up and vest, leaving the white undershirt to match the pure white of the newly-acquired garment.

“ ‘Salve regina mater misericordiae!’ ” Cienna sang, taking the man but the palms. “You look stunning, Miss Ava Perón,” he looked back at Dice. “Does this piece look familiar, Hans? ‘Don’t cry for me Argentina, the truth is I never left you..’ It was only worn for a single scene, but it’s still pretty iconic to me.”

“Right, Evita.” Dice mumbled.

“His brother was in that, you know. The young man fit the role of ‘Che’ better than any version I’ve seen. ‘Oh What a Circus’ has never sounded better with his practical lack of testosterone.” Cienna informed Candyman as she spun him 360 degrees, watching the feathered trim twirl endlessly. Nobody could ever tell if she provided such back-handed compliments intentionally or not. Nevertheless, the woman was a sweet soul. “Wow. That was a while ago.”

“It was the last production he was in,” Dice begrudgingly pointed out. Ceinna seemed to stand in that awkward middle ground where she couldn’t quite determine how much and/or how little she should bring up Cassidy before it became insensitive. She somehow never got it right, assuming there is a right amount.

“Dice told me about him, a pathetic tale it is. My condolences.” Candyman bowed his head in respect, and subsequently caught sight of something else that sparked his unending interest.

“I continue to hope that it wasn’t his last,” Cienna added, causing Dice to bite his lip and cringe. He watched Candyman observe a shelf lined with deteriorating foam heads draped in wigs, headpieces, and the occasional necklace. He extracted a white, asymmetrical mask which he held up to his face. To nobody’s surprise, it wasn’t a great fit.

“Oh, honey, let me find you something more suitable for your… structure.” Cienna tended to Candyman as Dice examined the way his undershirt slid off his right shoulder, revealing the awful branding.

Dice only ever recalled Candyman in room 21, not this cryptic “24” that had been burned into him. If he had learned one thing, it’s how small details like these can’t go overlooked.

“Hey, Candy,” Dice cut into the two’s indistinct chatter, “Where did the ‘4’ come from?” he gestured to his own right collarbone with the pushpin he forgot he was holding. Candyman took a second to figure out what he was going on about.

“Candyman, floor 3, room 24,” he replied softly, confused. “Didn’t I tell you about–”

“No, I remember,” Dice went on, “But I also remember your sanctioned room being 21, not 24.”

Candyman didn’t look any more perplexed than he usually did. “Huh. That’s quite the observation. Oh well, nobody’s perfect,” He tossed the tail of a cashmere scarf he had dug out theatrically over his shoulder, gazing in the full-body mirror in front of him. “–That is, if you don’t count looks.”

Either it was a mistake and human wellbeing was just that undervalued to the asylum staff that they couldn’t even guarantee the accuracy of something so permanent, or there was something left to be discovered about their protocol.

Either way, “God damn revolting.”

Candyman laughed at Dice’s detestment. “Is it, though?” He lifted his cane to the six pips plastered on Dice’s chest.

“That’s different. I don’t think you ASKED for that,” Dice adjusted his friend’s sleeve to its intended position.

“I think it’s badass.”

“I think it’s bastardizing.”

Cienna was burdened with breaking the two’s petty arguments. “Come on, guys. You bicker like siblings.”

Dice shot the woman an ice-cold glare, yet said nothing.

Cienna turned to Candyman. “So, dandy-man, did you find yourself anything?”

Candyman untied the iridescent robe and wrapped it around a nearby mannequin. “Nothing I couldn’t live without, I’m afraid. I appreciate the offer, though.” He unfolded his button-up that sat neatly atop a sewing machine. Dice got up, sorting the mended petticoats from the ripped ones in two fluffy piles.

“Very well, gentlemen,” Cienna placed a pale hand on Dice’s shoulder, “I hope to see more of your fabulous yellow friend in the near future. Oh! Speaking of yellow, could you do me a favor?”

Dice shrugged. “Anything, shoot.”

The woman pointed at two plastic bags bursting with clothing articles in every possible shade of yellow. The sleeve of a lemon-colored turtleneck overflowed from the inside, along with a pair of amber shorts and sunny yellow slacks. “I’m not sure if my niece is dropping by anytime soon, would it be a bother to drop these off at her place?”

Dice was already hauling one bag over his shoulder. “Sonata’s never a bother. I mean, YOU'RE never a bother. You know.”

“You’re a saint, Hans.”

“I know.”

As the duo made their way into the open air of the city, Candyman twisted the bag’s handles into a bow at the palm grip of his cane, creating a makeshift bindle which he hoisted over his neck.

“Don’t you need that?” Dice inquired, gripping his newly-acquired copy of “Physics of the Impossible” to his chest like an A+ student. Candyman giggled, “Not if we keep moving! Where're heading to Sonata’s, right? Quite the interesting young lady! I wouldn't have guessed that the talkative seamstress was her aunt.”

Dice snickered. Candyman was the last person qualified to call anyone ‘talkative’ or ‘interesting’. Some of the guy’s best jokes were the ones he didn’t know he was making.

Candyman paused slightly, in consideration.

“Can I call you Hans?” He asked Dice, who didn’t spare him a passing glance before he replied.

“Not a chance, Candy-boy.”

Chapter Text

The reporters weren’t kidding about the rain. It started off promising, when the low, threatening clouds loomed over every inch of the city, until heavy drops began to fall without a word of warning in the form of gentle showers. The one day Dice abandons his favorite hat.

Candyman, in his usual vanity, took action immediantly. He fished around in his plastic bag, ultimately drawing a pleated yellow raincoat and using it as a hooded shawl. It wasn’t flattering, But it was practical.

Candyman curiously scanned the roadside; the minimal amount of sunlight that reflected off nuts and bolts gathered on the edge had caught his eye, and he hadn’t drawn them away from the curb immediately, as there was always something new to examine . Nothing valuable, often colored tabs from soda cans and receipts, tiny metal bindings and the odd solitary sock. An unfortunate find was the corpse of a cat that had fallen victim to the dangers of the road, innards spilling over its stiff limbs and across its neck as if it was the intestines that had choked and killed the poor thing rather than the tire of an unforgiving vehicle. Neither Dice nor Candyman could consider it as revolting or disturbing; the carcass wasn’t an eyesore or a nuisance. It was only so, very sad.

At least three eyes regarded the scene with condolence.

“We should give it a name,” Candyman said, seeming aware that the statement was questionable even for someone like himself. Or, maybe, He just needed the right environment to let his true colors show. A costume loft full of disembodied foam heads, maddeningly endless rows of brightly-colored garments that took half a minute to get lost in, and uncanny mannequins mercilessly twisted in unnatural positions could almost match Candyman’s chaotic energy. Anything he could say would be received through the filter of the equally bizarre domain, therefore understood as a new normal.

Here, the streets were bare and predictable. The ground was evenly leveled, and routes were restricted with wired fences, locked doors, and society’s standards.

Anything Candyman could say here was more than deserving of a few questions. Dice just happened to settle on an obvious one.

“What? The cat?” Dice shuddered. Or what was left of it. He had to look over his shoulder at the gruesome sequence, a lucky crow had returned to gouging itself on the easy meal as soon as the two had made it a good ten feet away. At least someone was ecstatic about it. “I think it might be a little late for that,” Dice returned his gaze sensibly forward.

“I didn’t see a collar, it might have died a stray. Without a name. Without a proper send off or someone to mourn,” Candyman’s words died as if he was stricken with sudden guilt. He prevailed; “It’s the least we could do.”

Dice allowed his mind to wander on unnecessarily thought-provoking tangents. “Candyman” was a job title. It was the most recognizable jingle of some irrelevant Roald Dahl film and later a pop star’s unsubtle amorous anthem. There was some movie about – what was it…? – a beekeeping pirate or something by the same title. It was who out-of-touch crackheads would crack open their wallets for. The word, or rather two words, were supposed to be accompanied by “a” or “the”. It was not something found on a birth certificate or attendance list. It was not a name.

But it was all he really had.

So what would Candyman – the one currently strolling beside Dice – include in the name criteria? Had he, like so many others trying to maintain their own sanity, chose not to question certain aspects of himself? Or did he reside under some maroon-tinted lenses that assured him his existence was completely normal and maybe even necessary?

“Missy,” Candyman offered plainly, putting an end to Dice’s convoluted internal dialogue. He didn’t seem open to constructive criticism on his decision, either.

Dice couldn’t help the grin curling on his lips at his confidant's ability to turn the dead into something so lively. A modern Frankenstein. “How do you know it’s a lady cat?”

“Because her name is Missy,” Candyman said with unshakable confidence. Dice decided this made complete sense. That kind of thing was always up to personal decision when that man was involved.

“Agree to disagree,” Dice shrugged, taking one last look at the animal which was becoming nothing more than a spec with a black, feathery blur orbiting it. Maybe he’d give Candyman’s abnormal outlook a try; “What about Prometheus. Because, you know, the crow is devouring his liver.” He hoped he’d gotten the reference right. Suppose it didn’t really matter. It’s not like Candyman would get the–

“You mean vulture,” Candyman said, “In the Greek myth; it was a vulture, not a crow. Symbolic of death and decay.”

Wow. okay.

“I mean, I was applying our circumstances. It was a crow that was ravenging on the cat,” Dice explained. “Even so, it’s an eagle in the actual story. Symbolic of righteously divine punishment.”

Candyman shrugged, almost mocking Dice’s earlier statement. “Agree to disagree.”

“Any shoes in there?” Candyman asked, pointing to the bag Dice was hauling. Dice lifted it a couple times in an attempt to determine the weight. He shook his head.

“Your shoes are fine, we’ll reach the car in five to ten minutes, I reckon.”

“Not for ME,” Candyman laughed. “I’m the only one here actually wearing something. Although, now that you mention it, I’ll avoid getting these dirty.” He swung his foot forward. “Vintage Oxford.”

“I’m going to act like I know what you're talking about,” Dice replied dismissively, frantically scanning his surroundings in a sudden wave of paranoia.

It was a feeling he was all too familiar with; the kind that crept up on you that one would underestimate the extent of until the moment it struck. Only then could Dice recount it vividly. He’d be in the middle of a casual Lethal League match, his mind only occupied by his next move, and it would all hit him at once.

That was where it all went wrong. No shit, what he was doing was illegal, but being an avid player didn’t quite equate to a life of crime in Dice’s mind. It was the idea that his brother had been punished for the same thing, stripped of all identity and autonomy. The idea that Dice was on the verge of a similar fate, whatever that would be.

And what really sent a chill down Dice’s spine was how many times his fear had been warranted.

It had to be part of his subconscious mind trying to save him. He would freeze, The ball would bolt past him as well as his friend’s muffled words of concern, and he’d spot what would either be a police drone or cop dangerously close to where they’d set up the match. There were plenty of alleyways and corners a “dirty outlaw” like him could disappear into at a moment’s notice, and in the event where he would be caught, the authorities would most usually leave him and his troop alone after spouting some words of warning. In those common instances, he’d thank every God as a devastating weight would be lifted from his shoulders. But in the back of his mind he knew it was luck and luck only that he hadn’t faced more pressing consequences.

The difference between then and now was in the present moment, nobody could argue his concern’s validity. He shot an arm restricting Candyman, who stopped dead in his tracks. A faint buzzing filled the duo’s sudden silence, growing increasingly louder until it became unmistakeable.

“A June bug..?” Candyman questioned innocently, prompting Dice to turn and look at him with disbelief. The brief action preoccupied him for a split second, just enough time for the police drone to catch up to them and take a good, undeniable look. There was no mistaking them now, the lightning-fast security system had already identified the two of them as the unstable fugitive and his unassuming little brother. Dice stared into the cruel, scarlet eye of the drone with malice-coated anxiety as it hovered before the two of them. In what could only be considered satisfying to Dice, the spherical bot was launched with the swing of a cane.

“I was hoping it would shatter, but that works too,” Candyman admitted, shielding his eyes as he peered into the direction he had hit the drone, “But I suppose we couldn’t use them in the leagues if they were so delicate.”

“Don’t talk about the ‘leagues’ here,” Dice scolded in a loud whisper, “Those things never travel alone, and we’ve criminalized ourselves enough.”

Sure enough, The buzzing returned and grew noticeably faster in volume. This one almost felt aggressive and understandably vengeful as it flew past Dice, grazing his cheek with successful intimidation. The electronic humming became an ear-piercing chorus as a “flock” of drones surrounded the pair.

“As if a headshot wasn’t damning enough, now they want all angles!” Candyman joked before sinking into silence the moment he caught Dice’s intensely fearful expression. “ ‘Wadda we do?” Candyman whispered with newfound concern.

The two were standing back-to-back now, ready to strike at any moment. “What we do best.”

“Tap-dancing or vaguely legal deprative phycological torture?”

“What? No! Fend these pests off,” Dice took ahold of one (Just his luck, as the drones had the reaction speed of any insect, and trying to swat a fly was hard enough) and threw it into the distance. He was a thousand times better with a technique-based toss than determining distance, so the pod made a beautiful arc in the air at the expense of traveling a productive length. He patted the pockets of his shorts where he usually kept his paddle. Nothing.

Dice looked over his shoulder at candyman, who was swatting at the buzzing demons, only sending them a few feet back before they returned to their claustrophobic ring. “Can’t you, like, wall-port us out of here?” Dice hissed, plunging his arm into the plastic bag that hung off his elbow, creating a painful indent that would eventually become numb. He drew out his paperback novel, almost imminently questioning his own thought process. Candyman didn’t respond, continuing his heroic combat against the police drones.

Sirens blared eerily in the fog-engulfed distance. Shit.

They couldn’t flee to the alleyway in which they had
parked, that they understood. Even then, the drones had probably interconnected every unimportant attribute of Dice’s identity to his license plate, car model, address, and judicial history. But he wouldn’t give them the benefit of leading them to any of it. He batted the two metal pests blocking his path with his newly-acquired ‘Physics of the Impossible’ and took his partner by the wrist, pulling him away from the robotic pod in silence. The drones didn’t follow as they fled. They had all the incriminating information they needed, it seemed.

The pair made a sharp turn around a building of one-way glass and into a thin lane, only wide enough for a bike to travel through. The sudden shift of direction sent Candyman slamming himself into a chain link fence, before regaining his composure as he launched himself out of the metal wiring and back on track. The narrow lane let off into a collection of steel storage compartments, each divided individually creating a maze-like network between the structures.

“Can you get us in one of these?” Dice knocked on the metal garage door of one of the storage units.
“The security systems on those things are ruthless. It’ll create an audible beacon.”

“I think we're passed that, man.” Dice lowered his body as the sirens grew closer, flashing red lights illuminating each possible direction they could be coming from.

What the two would come to discover with frustrating inconvenience was the fact they were approaching in ALL directions.

Every second Dice devoted to his plans on escaping this situation drew him closer to imprisonment and Candyman to whatever awaited him in solitary confinement. “Whatever” being literally nothing except further descent into a total state of compliance.

Thick drops of rain radiated a vermillion tint in the police lights, as some bastard authority figure’s voice echoed through the thick hum of a megaphone. Her words were condescendingly commanding – whatever they were, some expectedly overcomplicated phrases like “UNLICENSED FUGITIVE SUBJECT, ADULT MALE OF MODIFIED SPECIES” and the classic “HANDS WHERE WE CAN SEE ‘EM, BOYS; WE’VE GOT YOU SURROUNDED…” – and barely penetrated Dice’s thick state of thought. Who were they to call someone else a “modified species”? Most officers were artificial lifeforms themselves. It helped decrease policeman casualties.

Dice’s arms shot up above his head in reluctant defeat, and candyman unsurely spread and raised his left hand at shoulder level resembling some awkward greeting, his other stabilizing his cane. He wasn’t quite familiar with the whole “hands in the air” shtick, it seemed. In his defense, both of his hands weren’t completely visible under the satin gloves.

His lack of immediate escape efforts irritated Dice to no end. He felt like a child relying on his elders again, maintaining the mentality that grown-ups will and should have the answers to every hurdle. They just KNEW things. He even felt the anticipation in the fact that he himself would know things, would know EVERYTHING one day.

Candyman knew the basics, and that proved to be enough. He knew when to flee.

Like the planchette of a Ouija board being subconsciously shifted by a group of teenagers, the pair felt themselves sliding towards the narrow walkway of two storage compartments. The movement was subtle yet did not go unnoticed.

The woman’s voice boomed from every direction “PLEASE COOPERATE LEST WE USE PHYSICAL FORCE,” It echoed, cuing the soft but gut-dropping click of guns at the ready. That certain phrase was uncomfortably clear and legible. As much as Dice wished it did, this threat somehow failed to stop him and Candy’s escape route. They were taking visible steps back now, their spindly figures engulfed in shadow. The officers – there were about four now – adjusted accordingly. The way they aimed their weapons with clear intent made Dice’s heart sink.

The command was repeated over the megaphone, breaking up the last few words the way someone’s voice would break as they started to cry. Dice cringed at the feeling of Candyman’s wrist tapping against his side. Understanding the guy was already hard enough when he could communicate verbally, it was anyone’s guess as to what he was trying to inform Dice.

What Dice did know was the action could be seen as entirely incriminating. Four loaded guns, possibly more, were pointed directly at them. The stakes were high to say the least. Candyman was supposed to be the one to offer stupid solutions for Dice to turn down. But Dice didn’t turn down this one.

Everything happened in a matter of seconds. A gun went off (worst case scenario; checkmarked) and Dice felt a burly hand gloved in cold kevlar grasp his forearm. Dice latched his own tightly around his friend’s wrist with the desperation of a man overboard. It was like he could feel the ice-cold saltwater streaming into his silently screaming mouth.

Except the only water surrounding Dice was the intense rain that seemed to cease entirely in a split second.

Dice had always assumed there would be a feeling – maybe akin to something numbingly cold or the sore pressure in your ears when at the bottom of a deep pool – to teleportation. But he felt nothing, only bewilderment as he watched his body slip into the wall after Candyman, the rough grip of the officer’s glove still firmly clasped to his wrist. Dice felt no need to stay silent now, and sputtered out a convoluted assortment of words that Candyman somehow understood entirely. Wherever they were going, Candyman had to make sure the kevlar-wrapped man wouldn’t be able to tag along.
So he closed the portal.

Dice wasn’t sure if whatever Candy had opened was, in fact, a portal. It only took the shape of whoever entered rather than maintaining a silver, circular build that you’d see used in science fiction movies or illustrated in old comics. The hero would daringly hop into the swirling, glowing orifice and it would promptly close itself. As far as Dice could recall, Hollywood barely considered the possibility of a reality-bending entity malfunctioning or being used improperly. Planes would not take off until all paying passengers were safely on board. Portals would not close until the protagonist was safely transported to wherever it led. That seemed to be the ideal function.

Dice hadn’t yet escaped the police man’s grasp, but it had surely escaped him. The limb was cleanly severed halfway through the upper arm.

What Dice anticipated to be a scream died on his lips. His jaw was open, it was just that some screams didn’t need sound to get the intensely petrified feeling across. He frantically shook the disembodied hand from his wrist, sending it falling pathetically on the floor in a pool of its – or rather his – own blood. Whoever he had been.

The loudest sound from Dice’s mouth was a soft, suffocated gasp as he stumbled backward into the wall, taking Candyman with him. The two were now collapsed against a one-way glass building illuminated by the miniscule amount of light that the rain reflected.

Candyman sat with his back to the wall, a hand on the shoulder of Dice who was hunched over on the ground as well, grabbing his chest in a panic. He checked for bullet wounds that could have been dismissed by shock. To his unending luck, he found nothing. At least him and Candyman had come out in one piece. Couldn’t say the same for the poor guy who, at the end of the day, was only following orders.

The duo sat in a deafening silence as they attempted to catch their breaths. Candyman’s turned into an agitated laugh as he stared at the crimson pool around the officer’s limp arm.

“That’s… what you get when you… mess with us,” Candyman huffed, his breath stretching out the sentence. “It'll cost you… an arm or a leg..!”

Dice breathily coughed out a defeated, weak chuckle as he pressed his head against the wall behind him, Before promptly throwing up.