Chapter Text
“Come morning I found the day as I have found every other day— without relief or explanation.”
―
There’s something eerily familiar about the song echoing in his ears, the foliage thick enough to block his vision, thorns digging into the skin of his arms, ripping the fabric of his pants; he keeps moving forward still, pain ignored, pushed away by something that sits between morbid curiosity and a feverish need to get away from the woods that seem to grow darker and darker around him at each step taken, a shadow following him too close, driving him to move faster and faster. His body feels uncanny, a too familiar feeling he shoves deep down easily, distracted by everything else happening around. The music, the lights, the forest.
(Like a siren calling for him, and he’s dumb enough to fall for it.)
And it finally comes into view: the colors of a circus tent, colossal and colorful, all of his worries immediately forgotten the moment he spots it, doubts erased from his mind as he crosses the carnival grounds and ducks into the circus ring, the cheers and music growing louder in his ears. It’s easy to follow the noise, to push faceless people out of his way— mannequins, he notices at some point, not that it matters. It’s no surprise his brain wouldn’t come up with too many faces to fill an entire circus during a really weird dream, and he moves quickly, finding an empty, perfect seat at the ringside.
The show had already begun, of course, every element of the weirdest, childish dreams coming into play. Circuses are supposed to be a home for freaks, if he remembers well— and this one is, that’s for sure. The cast doesn’t seem big, the ring too empty of ‘people’ for its size but it makes up with something else. The animals aren’t exactly natural, made of plastic parts combined into something that should resemble horses being ridden by a human-sized ragdoll, followed by small, toy-like pieces with big eyes. The mannequins cheer when she trots by, but his eyes move somewhere else, trying to grasp as much as he could.
(He’s not going to remember any of this in the morning, after all. Better enjoy the dream, as completely nuts as it looks. It’s been ages since he’s been to a circus, so why would he even dream about one?)
There’s something…someone? that looks like a toybox trying to appear human and failing miserably, different parts attached to a torso in a way that makes absolutely no sense, too many arms juggling torches and other items he can’t really understand nor tries to, eyes shifting again, trying to lock on something else to watch— and the lights around the ring dim without notice, darkness taking over the arena easily, creeping up poles and into the grandstand, and he holds his breath in anticipation, not even sure why.
One by one spotlights turn on, pointed directly at the tightrope above.
Then, he sees her. A small figure, skin white as paper shining even paler under her multicolored leotard, walking down the tightrope as one would walk on the floor. For the first time he feels himself grounding his gaze, following her movements, cheers and music completely drowned out— and he feels himself losing his breath yet again when she lets her body fall from the rope only to catch a trapeze appearing from the darkness, gravity nothing but a prop discarded, useless to her. She moves in the air with ease, dancing with silks and ropes, almost floating between hoops and trapezes.
A little, almost shy part of him wishes he was up there too, and he shushes it down without a second thought— but his heart skips a beat when she emerges from a dark spot, dangling dangerously on a trapeze right on his direction but the rope only takes her so far, but it’s close enough for him to see her face, to spot small details the lack of light had been concealing; her uncanny, pinwheel eyes in red and blue, dark, curly hair slowly escaping a poorly-tied bun, falling on her forehead. This close, she looks even more like a cartoon doll.
Then, her gaze meet his and for a moment time seems to freeze, his heartbeat suddenly too loud in his ears, pumping too fast against his chest, his throat constricted almost painfully— she’s beautiful. The thought crosses his mind in a blink and his face burns in response, the spell broken, and she’s moving away before he could even fully register it. And it’s stupid, really, how pathetic he can feel even in a dream like this.
(He’s thankful this is just a really weird dream, or else he’d have to admit love at first sight is actually a real thing.)
And his body is a treacherous little bitch, of course it is. He’s moving before he can stop himself, pushing through mannequins, eyes still following her around the stage, legs taking him around the arena, beyond an area he knows he’s not allowed to be but he couldn’t care less. It’s a dream, his dream. What fun is there in not participating in a show his own brain had cooked up for him? It’s easy to find a pole he can climb, something like instincts taking control and he doesn’t fight it, mind wandering far, running around the stage along the little acrobat doll.
(She is the siren that’s been calling for him.)
He finds a safe area up the arena, nearby a spotlight, and he doesn’t miss the rope conveniently placed within his reach. On any other day, he doubts he’d even enter a circus, let alone invade the cast area chasing one of the members as if he’s also part of the show. But there’s a sense of freedom in being in a dream that always drives him to take the most idiotic decisions, and he grabs the rope, wrapping it around his wrist with a mastery that doesn’t belong to him but he accepts wholeheartedly. What else is he supposed to do, anyway?
She’s back on the tightrope again, he notices. Each step she takes is slow, calculated, her head moving around as if looking for something— then her gaze finds him in the dim light and she smiles, inviting, almost daring.
(He loves a good challenge.)
There’s a chill of anticipation running down his spine, a strange feeling settling right at the pit of his stomach— something in the back of his mind clicks, too familiar to be ignored, and he lets his body relax, allows himself to just embrace the craziness of it all. And a moment later he’s flying across the ring, catching the little acrobat as soon as she lets herself fall from the rope again; their eyes meet and he ignores the way his heartbeat falters when she smiles, ignores how the pinwheels seem to shine brighter for a second— she escapes his grasp easily, flying away in a rope he hasn't even noticed nearby, and his brain falls into a foggy haze, body following an unknown script buried deep within him.
(He doesn't fight it. Why should he? It's just a dream giving him a boost to do the impossible, to follow its rules, and he's more than happy with the silent support.)
The music picks up from somewhere down the ring floor, cheering and clapping growing louder by the second but he tunes the noises down, attention locked on the little acrobat and nothing else, not even himself; being up in the air feels like second nature, choreography drilled into his brain by the power of illogicality alone, reality long forgotten the moment he stepped into dreamland. It's comfortable, dangerously so, to let himself get lost in the uncanny, to just embrace the idea of being able to do whatever he wants.
The show comes to an end with him back to the ground, the little acrobat standing on his raised hand, her weight nothing on his muscles somehow, the spotlight too bright on his eyes for but a moment before it moves away to someone else at the center of the arena— to the ringmaster, probably, if he could still remember a thing or two about circus stuff; not that he can bring himself to care for longer than that, the doll-acrobat backflipping to the ground with mastery, his eyes following her every movement with attention.
She doesn't go far, standing by his side with that same cute smile that makes his heart skip a beat or two, grabbing his hand before he could even dare to think to move away— and only then something in his brain finally realizes that his hand doesn't look quite right.
And maybe it's just the circus lights playing trick on him, maybe it's the bizarreness that comes only from dreams but the purplish color on his skin is definitely not human, something akin to fur clinging all the way up to his arm. That's not right, that can't be right—
"OH MY!"
A voice, too loud and overly excited, rings too close to his ears, coming right from something that could've only generated from a nightmare or worse; a giant pair of nothing teeth floating in the air, dangerously close to his face, with big eyes and somehow connected to a smaller body dressed in ringmaster clothes, and for a moment he almost feels like his soul tries to escape his body only to slam back with full force not a second later, his knees buckling as he steps back, trying to gain distance between him and the creature—
His legs connect hard to something on the ground and he loses his balance, pain running wild up and down his spine as his back absorbs most of the impact, other voices joining and growing louder and more concerned around him— everything is just too much, and he tries to scramble back to his feet, tries to push himself off the ground and make a run for it but he can only manage to drag himself away from all the noise, heart beating too fast against his ribcage, eyes darting wildly around, looking for a way out.
(There’s no logical explanation for the raw, carnal horror taking over his sense, stealing his breath, but nothing seems to make sense in that fucked up dream anyway; it’s easier to let panic control him, safer.)
But something else reacts too, his stomach roiling, a familiar yet foul taste filling his mouth too quickly before he could even think about holding it back, and his body moves fast on instinct— he rolls over, finally pushing himself off the ground only enough, pain and humiliation all but forgotten in the back of his mind as he retches, arms trembling under the effort to keep him balanced; acid burns his tongue as he gasps for breath, the unnatural, black pitch color of whatever he just expelled only making him feel like throwing up again.
A hand rests on his back, too gentle, too warm, snatching his attention with little effort, the voices behind him too mixed for his terrified brain to understand anything that's being said; maybe arguing, maybe trying to talk to him, but soon enough the voices quiet down, replaced by the noises of people walking away, then nothing; silence stretches for far too long, broken only by his pained, breathless gasps.
(It's a dream but it feels too real, everything feels too real and it shouldn't be possible, it's all wrong, everything is just wrong—)
"It's okay, you're okay." A soft voice chimes from somewhere behind him, now both hands on his back moving slowly, massaging his shoulders before setting right under his arms. "Here, let me help you."
And he doesn't fight it, just lets his body go limp under the touch, allows himself to be moved around and away from the little disgusting pool he created, the pain ebbing away slowly from his sore back; and it takes his dazed brain a second to recognize the little acrobat dragging him in all her… 4? feet glory, not even breaking a sweat, and he can't help but relax when she sets him against something, maybe a prop or whatever. It feels a little easier to breath now, to think, and he manages to drag a hand across his mouth, as if that'd be enough to get rid of the vile taste still clinging—
and his hand is, without a doubt, still very much purple and very much wrong.
(Since when he got four fingers and so much fur?)
"What the fuck."
"Give yourself a second." The girl again, now by his side, sitting on what seems to be a wooden cube, her pinwheel eyes filled with too many weird emotions; even her smile, as soft as it looks, doesn't bring him any comfort. "Everyone's gone for now. They tend to… pile up when someone new arrives, so I asked them to leave. I'm Pomni, by the way."
And she definitely takes the 'weirdest name he's ever heard' prize, that's for sure.
He refuses to pay attention to the 'new arrival' bit, huffing instead, looking away. This is the craziest dream he's ever had, no doubt. The fur under his fingers feels too realistic and he can’t help but run his hand up and down his arm, just feeling, testing. Sometimes he’d get those hyper-realistic dreams and this isn’t any different, but there’s something else, something wrong and he refuses to let his mind go down that path, anxiety barely contained, threatening to break the fragile door keeping it away from his senses.
It’s just a stupid, real as shit dream.
"We don't need to stay here." The girl's — Pomni — voice is gentle, almost tentative, and he forces his gaze to rest on her face. She's staring at him, something unreadable resting in her expression, and for the first time he notices a little detail— the colors in her pinwheel eyes move. It’s slow, almost imperceptible, but the red and blue spin nonetheless. “The others will come back soon. I can take you somewhere quiet.”
She stands up and offers her hand, and for a moment he just glares at it, suddenly aware that she's not exactly human, not with her paper-white skin and cartoonish vibes— still the warmth from before keeps crashing within him in almost painful waves, the memory of her fitting perfectly in his arms a bit too loud but it’s just a stupid dream and he’ll forget about everything in the morning. Why should he care so much?
"Who cares. It's just a dream."
Her smile falters, a strange glint passing by her eyes so fast he could almost believe he'd imagined it.
Dread pools at the bottom of his stomach.
"It…" The acrobat hesitates for but a moment; something is wrong, every inch of his body can feel it, maybe a dream slowly turning into a nightmare and it wouldn't be the first time but still… "If it's just a dream, it won't hurt to explore around."
He mulls the idea, anxiety building quietly in the back of his mind. There's not much else to see in the inner ring now that the show is over, nothing but a quite boring replica of a real empty circus with its actors out and about, the 'magic' of their performance gone, leaving only a quiet, dim-lighted area that doesn't spark his curiosity. Maybe his imagination could only go so far, maybe it’s supposed to be one of those dreams where others would lead him around.
(A dream that's dragging for far too long, his body refusing to wake up even with the pain from before. That doesn't feel right, nothing about this place feels right.)
"Fine, whatever."
He finally grabs her hand, forcing his body to stand up, allowing himself to rely on her touch to regain balance; for a moment his eyes stay locked on his own hand, glaring at the purplish color, at how… non-human it looks like. This is stupid, everything about this bizarre dream is, and he wants to wake up right away— but he doesn't, and the only thing he can do is let go of Pomni to follow her, hands safely tucked under his armpits. It’s easier to avoid looking at them this way, but not so easy to avoid thinking about how… alien his body feels. It’s not an unfamiliar feeling but this is different, the sensation growing larger and larger at each step he takes, deeper in a way he can’t really put in words nor even want to.
Why would he, anyway? It’s not like he’ll be remembering everything once he wakes up— but it doesn’t stop him from trying to figure out how much he’s changed without looking at himself in a mirror.
(Do mirrors work in dreams? He can’t really tell.)
There are easy things he can account for in this… dream body. He’s tall, the most obvious one to grasp. Pomni is small compared to him, like 3 apples tall or something, but he can feel his arms and legs being longer, thinner, and there’s something different about his lower muscles, about the shape of his feet, how it feels to step on the ground. And he’s purple. At least his hands and arms are. So are his feet, now resembling too much a paw of sorts. And he got fur, short but soft, all over his skin, and it’s… not so bad, in a really strange way.
(Only his luck would allow him to get stuck in a furry's paradise.)
It's the flatness of his chest that eases a hint of doubt gnawing at his mind, and for a moment he feels tempted to rub the area out of habit— but Pomni stops all of sudden, talking to him again, and he forces his attention to stay on her.
“And this is where we sleep.” She’s pointing at an open glade behind her, tents and trailers spread all over the area. “We share tents, but everyone got a trailer for when we need some alone time. So it’s Ragatha and Gangle, Kinger and Zooble, and me and Ribbit.” Her finger moves from a tent to the other, as if he’d retain all this useless information once he wakes up. “You’ll probably share a tent with someone for a while.”
“Sure. Gonna have lots of fun at the dream carnival.”
Sarcasm feels like poison in his tongue, and he almost cringes at his own tone. She’s glaring at him now, her lips quivering for a fleeting moment before she smiles again— and it’s a tight smile, filled with something he can’t really grasp, something too familiar, like an old pain that never healed and it’s rubbing off on him, settling under his skin, digging under his muscle and bone. It’s unnerving, and he can feel anxiety building up fast, too fast. This is just a stupid dream, nothing more than that, and he will wake up anytime now.
“What?” He snaps, fingers digging deeper into his sides. It hurts.
(A small part of his brain knows it shouldn’t, not in a dream.)
“What’s your name?”
Well, that’s just the most stupid question he’s heard since he stepped into that dream. He shouldn’t need to introduce himself to some random characters in a hyper-realistic dream, or in any dream at all, because his brain knows his name. Everyone in that stupid carnival should know it as well, because it’s his imagination doing all that shitty work, even creating other names for characters he hasn't even seen yet, and he’s getting really frustrated at it not letting him wake up, despite all the pain he’s been through. Maybe he’s just really tired—
Pomni is staring, waiting. It’s disquieting, makes his anxiety crank up to eleven. He should just tell her his name and get this whole staring contest done and over with, even if she already knows it and is messing with him for some reason. Why are dream characters so annoying sometimes? Maybe he should avoid sleeping for a good while, just to get his brain free from all this weird crap. No more realistic dreams, no more nightmares. He can survive on energy drinks and caffeine for a few days. He’s done it before, he can certainly do it again.
His mind is wandering off. He just needs his name, that’s easy.
How could he not know his own name, after all?
(But his name comes up as a blank slate. Over and over and over and over again.)
…
In that very moment, every inch of his fragile determination comes tumbling down.
He has no idea how long he stayed there, on the ground again, breathing so shallow his lungs hurt, heartbeat loud on his ears, too loud and no matter how much he tried, which way he scrambled his brain, his name would never come up, almost like it’s never existed, and every time he came to that conclusion dread would take over again, choking him. He’s crying, he knows that much, everything else lost in the thick fog covering his mind— at some point he’d discovered, to his horror, his face had also changed, the same fur in his arms covering it completely, his human ears replaced by long ones covered in fur, now droopy and heavy on his shoulders, and he’d tried to tug at them, tried to just rip them off in his blind panic but Pomni held his wrists until he stopped trying.
It’s not a dream. There’s something almost comical about that simple realization— and he can feel a laughter, humorless, manic even, wrecking through him between sobs and painful wheezes. How can it not be a dream, when everything is so twisted, wrong in so many ways? How can this be real when this isn’t his body, when he’s not even human anymore? He doesn’t even know what he is now.
“I know.” Pomni’s voice seems to cut the fog clinging to his mind. She’s still here for some reason, kneeling on the grass in front of him, holding his hands, massaging his fingers gently. Her voice is low, carrying too many things at once— a bone-deep sadness, understanding. As if she’s been through the same situation before and just knows what to do. “It’s a lot. I’m right here, okay? Just try to breathe with me.”
It should be easy, he knows that. The oldest trick in the book, one he’s known for so long and now can’t bring himself to follow without help. She’s close, hands never letting go of him, her presence a lighthouse in the middle of a stormy ocean and he clings to her touch like a man lost in those dangerous waters, desperate, terrified of drowning. It should be easy to follow her directions, to mimic the way she’s breathing, slow, controlled, deliberate. It’s familiar, sickeningly so.
In. Out.
(She’s whispering sweet nothings, words too mumbled for him to understand.)
In. Out.
His chest hurts and his lungs burn but he can feel panic ebbing away ever so slowly, the static in his ears receding until it’s nothing but a quiet hum, overwhelmed by Pomni’s voice still talking— not talking, really. She’s singing something under her breath, a tune that should be familiar but he can’t really bring himself to remember. Her voice is nice, soothing, and he closes his eyes, lets darkness take over for a moment. In. Out. His body remembers how to breath, slowly. His heart is still trying to escape his ribcage, his hands are still shaking but his brain feels less laggy, terror no longer a giant monster trying to swallow him whole.
“It’s not a dream.” The words escape him tentatively, and he weighs them for a moment. Some part of his stupid, wobbly mind recognizes the familiarity of it all, as if he’s been chanting the same thing over and over for the past… how long has he been there? He can’t really say, and maybe it doesn’t really matter. “It's not… This is… this is real.”
“Very real.” Pomni says softly, her gaze lost somewhere over his shoulder when he looks up at her. There’s that same sadness from before, almost hopelessness. “I’m sorry. Someone else would've asked for your name whether you were… ready to accept this whole thing or not. It’s… not really fun to break down with so many people watching.”
“That happened to you?” His voice cracks, his throat a dry desert, but he doesn’t miss how she flinches at the question as if it alone had been enough to bring back memories she didn’t want to think about, and maybe that’s exactly what happened. Her hands finally leave his, resting on her lap, and he bites down the wave of disappointment at the sudden loss of warmth.
(And she’s right. He’s already feeling embarrassed enough at the realization he’s almost had a meltdown in front of someone he’s never seen before. The same thing happening in the middle of a circus ring, with too many strangers staring, watching as if he’s one of them freaks, and no one helping? He’d rather die.)
“Yeah. Not my brightest moment, that’s for sure.” The laughter she offers is quiet, humorless; she looks as exhausted as he feels, porcelain-like face twisted in a weird mix of anger and silent resignation for a moment. “Anyway. You can pick a name now, or later. Don’t take Caine’s ideas, you’ll regret asking him.”
She grimaces, the reaction so cute and so sudden he can’t help but chuckle softly, shifting his weight around, relaxing his now long, sore legs. It should be easy to pick a new name, but it feels wrong, like just giving up and accepting the reality of it all when he should be fighting it off, when he should be looking for a way back home (did it ever feel like a home?). But he can’t really go around without a name, really.
(Unfortunately, he’s never been good at names. How long had it taken him to even pick the one he can’t remember anymore?)
“Uhm. I dunno. Any suggestions?”
And she finally spares him a glance, pinwheel irises spinning a little faster now as her gaze runs up and down his body, checking everything he can’t see yet. He pretends not to feel himself flinching at the sudden scrutiny, wraps his arms around his chest too quickly— old habits die hard, but Pomni doesn’t seem like judging his body, whatever it looks like now. Her eyes are soft, empathetic even.
“I’m not really good at names.”
“I bet. Pomni sure was a choice.” He tries to ease the mood, to joke around, but she just shrugs, defeated, looking even smaller. Oh. He looks away, rubbing the back of his neck before he could stop himself— his fur gets in the way and it startles him for a moment, and he groans under his breath. This is already humiliating enough, he doesn’t need to jump out of his skin at every new thing he notices about this body.
“You look like a Jax to me.”
There’s a sudden, new voice ringing too close, something heavy, almost acidic in its tone, and his eyes snap to its owner— a frog? Sure looks like it, standing on long legs, a dark leotard glued to its green body, a red, long ribbon tie on its neck and an easy, humorless grin on its face. He hasn’t seen it before, during the performance, or maybe he just wasn’t paying attention, too much information hitting him all at once. And something feels almost… wrong about the frog, something he can’t really name but can see, like a too dark shadow lingering too close. Pomni stands up quickly and he can’t help but follow her movements, arms still wrapped tight around himself.
(It feels safer, somehow.)
“Relax, I’m just checking on the new stuff. It’s not my fault you decided to steal the bunny all for yourself.” The frog stares at him again, its pie cut eyes scanning all over his body just like Pomni did and god does it feel a bit too much, makes him shrink into himself, trying to make himself smaller despite his stupid new height. “Some of us know how to have fun, y’know.”
“I don’t want anyone traumatizing them on their first day here, Ribbit.”
There’s a veiled accusation in Pomni’s tone, followed quickly by a long moment of silence, tension so heavy he feels like choking in it— then the frog laughs, loud, almost manic, not a single drop of humor in its voice, and thankfully it disappears back into the path without saying anything else. The silence stretches for a bit longer, and he can see Pomni clenching her fists, a quiet anger resting on her face, laced with something else. Regret, or worry maybe. He can’t really tell. And maybe she feels him staring, because the next moment she looks at him, her smile a bit too soft, body relaxed once more.
“Don’t mind her. Something crawled up their ass and died there, I guess.” A choked noise escapes him before he could hold it back, something between a laughter and a gasp, and it makes Pomni laugh too— and god isn’t it the sweetest noise he’s heard so far. Nope, not the time. He pushes the thought away, deep into his chest, ignores the embarrassment burning in his face. “But… I think Ribbit’s right. How do you feel about Jax?”
Jax. It sounds… normal, strangely so, when the other names he’s heard so far were verging the weird realm. Pomni, Ribbit, Gangle… he can’t remember the others, but they all had felt like something that came straight from a video game (and probably from the kinds he dislikes the most). Jax is a name he can work with, one that doesn’t feel so bad to carry while stuck in this… circus? carnival? He’s not really sure what’s the difference, if there’s one at all.
(A small, too quiet part of him mourns the name he’s abandoning willingly.)
“Guess it’s as good as I can get in this place.”
He allows his body to relax bit by bit, arms dangling uselessly by his side— and Jax can’t help but let his gaze wander to his hand again, wriggling his fingers slowly, testing, trying to measure how uncomfortable this feels. What is he even supposed to be now? Nothing human, that’s for sure. None of the others he’s seen had even looked fully like a person. Hell, he’d just met a human-sized cartoon frog that walked like they owned the place. Even Pomni had something uncanny about her, despite her form being the most human-like out of everyone he’s spotted in the circus ring, with her paper white skin that reminds him too much of a porcelain doll and limbs slimmer than normal.
“I have a mirror in my tent.” Pomni offers gently, and he snaps his head at her, suddenly too hyperaware of what he’s been doing— just staring quietly at his hand. Of course he’d be this pathetic. His mouth melts into a smile that feels too large to his face, too unnatural, taking more space than it really should but he doesn’t stop it, just lets his shoulders drop, the hand he’s been staring at resting on his hip.
“Lead the way.”
She just looks at him for a moment that feels too long, her silence too heavy, before smiling again, motioning for him to follow and so he does, his eyes scanning over the tents and trailers as they walk by. The tents are nothing special on the outside, a bit too normal for a place so weird from the inside out, just a little sign hanging over the entrance, names carved into the old wood. The trailers are more interesting, each one shining in different colors, a sticker with its owner’s (if Pomni’s silly, pouty cartoon face is any indication) face plastered on the door— and for a second his gaze lingers on trailers far back into the glade, separated from the rest, no tent around, a red X crossing over the sticker.
(His stomach plummets and he looks away. He doesn’t need to ask.)
The acrobat stops by one of the tents, the farthest one from the area’s opening, and offers him an inviting smile before disappearing under the flap, and for a moment he can only stand there, hand hovering over the fabric. His mind is still lagging behind, trying to wrap itself around the fact that this, whatever it is, is real. That he’s not stuck in a probably-drug-induced dream. How can it be real when everything around him looks so fake, with colors too bright, a sky that looks like a child’s drawing— even the sun seems to wink at him, and that alone is more than enough to jolt him back into action, ducking under the flap.
The tent is surprisingly cozy, way bigger on the inside than it looks from the outside, a warm light emanating from oil lamps hanging from the poles spread all around, keeping the thing standing. There’s a long curtain perfectly placed in the middle, blocking his view of the right side, maybe a way to divide the whole area between its owners, and Jax can’t help his curiosity from taking over, taking a peek between the fabric— and that side is completely drenched in darkness, lamps out, like light is impossible to reach that part. It feels wrong in too many different ways, and he’s quick to step back, to keep his gaze on what seems to be Pomni’s side.
Thankfully, she’s too busy dragging something to really pay attention to him, and he takes the opportunity to take a better look at her ‘room’. It’s night and day when compared to the blocked-off area, every lamp decorated with different sets of little bells, red and blue ribbons all over the place, catching his eyes easily, maybe her favorite colors. There’s a hammock in the back, in a softer shade of red, and he assumes that’s where she sleeps, if the pillow and blanket hidden between its cloth could indicate anything. She doesn’t seem to be the organized type, hoops and ropes tucked away in corners, letter cubes and dice all over the floor, boxes of what seems to be card games pushed under a piece of furniture— her wardrobe, maybe, a jester hat resting atop of it, its golden bells shining under the soft light.
“Jax?”
It takes him a moment to register her voice, the name that’s now his. It doesn’t sound so bad to his ears, really. He drags his eyes to where Pomni should be, feeling his entire body tense up as it finally clicks on his mind what she was moving— it’s covered by a blueish cloth, but he’s not an idiot. He can recognize a mirror when he sees the shape of one, and for a moment something akin to gratitude washes over him, relieved for not being forced to face himself without warning. He has no idea why she’s so nice, why she’s going so out of her way when she doesn’t need to because he’s not worth it, he’s just a stranger but…
“I’ll go talk to Caine. Take all the time you need, okay?”
Pomni steps away from the mirror, giving him a soft smile before walking past him, back to the entrance, and he just follows her with his eyes, waiting until she’s gone to even think about looking at his reflection— but then she stops for a moment, glancing back and offering him a quick thumbs up, probably trying to reassure him. It’s… cute, in a way. And then she’s gone, leaving him alone with his dangerous thoughts and a mirror he’s not sure he wants to uncover. He has to, and he knows that. The sooner he takes a good look at this new body, the sooner he can swallow that this is very real.
“...just stop being a pussy already, jeez.”
The words don’t help the way he’d hoped, of course. But he still takes a step closer, grabbing the cloth but not pulling it away just yet. It’s stupid to feel so scared, so vulnerable. In hindsight, there’s not much else he can really do right now. It’s either a dream he’s gonna wake up from and all of this little drama show he’s been putting out doesn’t matter at all or he’s awake and stuck in this hellhole and he can’t change what he’s about to see in the mirror. And some part of him, logical, more grounded, has already accepted that he’s not dreaming, has accepted that this reality, as utterly bonkers, is his new reality.
He gives the cloth a soft tug, watching as it slides down the mirror frame, bracing himself— and the thing (because it’s a thing, of course it is, standing tall like a human but still far from it) staring back is something he barely recognizes. Its entire body is covered in purple fur, long, hare-like ears pressed down against its skull, a strange expression on its face, black pupils so dilated he almost doesn’t notice its yellow scleras. He steps closer, and the thing moves too, mimicking him. He raises his hands, touches his face— the thing does the same, lips distorting into a too wide, manic smile, his own face twisting into the unnatural grin that doesn’t last. God, it looks so lost and weak and pathetic.
He looks pathetic.
Jax doesn’t notice the moment his legs decide to turn into mush, crumbling to the ground— a sharp, sudden pain goes up his back, enough to bring his mind back from the dangerous cliff it’s been walking into. It’s easy, a bit too much if he cares to think about it, to twist and writhe his body around, looking for the source of pain, and there’s a vile taste in the back of his tongue when his eyes finally fall on it; a fucking rabbit tail. Of course, because he’s not been humiliated enough before. Even his legs feel out of shape, and he can’t even bring himself to be surprised to finally recognize that the paw appendages he didn't pay much attention to before are actually very rabbit-like feet.
(There’s a little voice in the back of his mind saying it could’ve been worse, way worse. He ignores it, pushes it away because this body is insulting at best, degrading at worst, and he’d be clawing out of his skin if he had the chance.)
But no, out of every creature and possibility, he’d be stuck in a rabbit-hare-whatever body.
A hand trails down his stomach, under the pinkish shirt, running up his chest slowly, mindlessly, more out of habit than a need. He finds more fur all over his chest, just as expected, but his fingers stop by a mark he knows so, so well. He feels his breath getting stuck in his throat as he lets his hand explore more freely— the scar is deep, tender enough to make it feel almost fresh, and his brain short-circuits because why, why would he have this and not a normal human body? His other hand travels further down before he catches his reflection in the mirror, horror dawning on him as he notices the tent flap being pushed aside, and he scrambles around, hugs his knees tight against his chest, face burning in pure, raw embarrassment.
(He’s completely forgotten about Pomni.)
She slips into the tent making no noise, arms and face full of lilac and yellow cloths, and Jax just follows her reflection on the mirror, watching as she steps around her belongings without sparing too much of a glance, disappearing in a corner the mirror couldn’t show. And he can’t do much but wait, feeling his ears twitching at every soft rustling noise, the sensation so foreign it takes all his already depleted energy not to grab them and tug so maybe, just maybe he could get rid of those stupid things— but he just knows it won’t work so he keeps his hands still, face hidden on his knees so he’ll just stop looking at his new dumb body.
“Hey.” He lifts his head at her voice sounding too close than it should, eyes quickly finding Pomni. He hasn’t even heard her approaching but there she is, standing nearby. “You okay?”
And he wants to snap at her, to ask how could he be fine when the world is falling on his head, when he’s losing sense of reality? He can’t even understand how she looks fine. But she’s been nothing but nice when she doesn’t even know him, when she has nothing to gain out of being this friendly. Or maybe she does and he has no idea. He groans under his breath, pushes the little voice away again, forcing his lips into a wide smile that means nothing— it’s easy, sickeningly so, as if his whole face has been carved for that, and he refuses to give it too much thought.
“I’m peachy, toots.”
Pomni makes a soft noise, something between understanding and disbelief, and steps even closer, reaching out but his body is a traitorous little shit because he feels himself flinching, trying to escape a touch that hasn’t even happened yet. It’s stupid, and he’s stupid, but at least she doesn’t look offended. She just offers an empathetic smile, dropping her hand, and for a moment he almost regrets not accepting her comfort because she’s walking away, leaving him alone again— but then there’s a presence behind him, not touching but close enough for his body to feel it, to notice another’s warmth. His eyes wander back to the mirror, focusing on the smaller frame behind him, and something flips at the bottom of his stomach. Pomni is just sitting there, hugging her knees just like him, still sitting close enough to touch if he so wanted.
“Is this okay?”
And Jax stays still for a long moment at her question before allowing himself to relax against her ever so slowly, careful not to crush her with his weight— but she doesn’t move away, supporting him, and he stops again when it’s comfortable enough, testing the sensation on his cartoonish body for a second; it feels grounding, safer than being left to his own devices, not as invasive as being held. He can survive sitting like this for a few minutes, until his heart stops beating so fast, until his mind quiets down.
“Yea, it’s okay.” He stares at his reflection again, trying to find something that could resemble his old body but there’s nothing, even his own exhausted expression looking weird in such a fabricated face. The sigh that escapes him is deep, filled with something he can’t even grasp. “I look stupid.”
“I don’t think so.” Pomni retorts, her voice flat with a too brute honesty, pushing him back ever so gently, as if she’s trying to fight him for some control on their position or something. She’s a weird one. “At least you got some height. Do you think it’s fun being 4 feet tall? Because lemme tell ya, it’s not.”
The noise that escapes him is ungracious, like a snort he didn’t mean to let out, and he just pushes himself over her, relaxes almost all his weight on her back and shoulders, practically laying on her— and it’s easy to control his body, to hold himself up not to hurt the girl, but she groans mockingly anyway, her elbow connecting to his side with no strength at all, more a playful poke than to really push him away.
“You make for a good cushion. I’m a cartoon rabbit.”
“Hare. Rabbits have smaller ears.”
The way she says that, so non-chalantly, as if the absurdity of their small talk is completely non-existent, as if this is normal, expected even, makes him lose it, poor balance completely gone as a painful string of laughter escapes his chest, and he just lets his body slides to the ground, laying there pathetically, laughing, crying, god knows for how long. Pomni stays there too, staring at him, and he couldn’t care less. Who cares if she’s watching yet another meltdown? Who cares if he’s a rabbit, or hare? This place isn’t real, it isn’t human, no one in there is, not even him anymore.
Might as well enjoy the ride as much as he can.
And for the second time on the same day, he has absolutely no idea for how long he stays laying there on the cold ground, even after his laughter dies and tears stop coming, his body aching. And again Pomni doesn't leave his side, just waiting— either for him to calm down or fall apart, it doesn't really matter. But her presence is comforting, soothing even. It feels… good to be around her, it feels safe. It’s probably nothing but trauma speaking, clinging to the one thing that still looks almost human, trying to stay close to someone that’s been caring for him.
"Feeling better?" The acrobat asks, her voice soft. She's too nice, really, and a tiny part of him wants to fight it, to question her kindness when he did nothing to deserve that; he quiets that part easily, pushes it down before it could get too dangerous.
"I… guess." He sighs, forcing himself to shift onto his back, ignoring the strain in his muscles, eyes lost in the roof of the tent. "So… what's this place supposed to be?"
Pomni makes a soft, almost defeated noise under her breath, and a moment later she's laying on the ground by his side, eyes fixed on some part of the tent when he tries to look at her— she looks tired, less a cartoonish doll, almost human somehow but the moment is fleeting, the illusion gone in a blink of the eye, and Jax looks away again, keeps his gaze up, fingers tugging at the end of his shirt. He hasn't even noticed how tight it clings to his body, not really uncomfortable but weird nonetheless.
"I'm not… the best person to ask that, to be honest." She mumbles after another moment; his ear twitches unwillingly and he almost cringes at the sensation, trying to keep his focus on whatever she's saying rather than his body. "I guess we're stuck in a failed game or something. It's a traveling carnival, so we play as cast members and performe every day for the NPCs. The mannequins you've seen before? All of them are NPCs. The ringmaster, Caine, is the main AI that controls everything. He's… eh. Sometimes he creates these weird adventures that we have to play, it's kinda like LARPing. He says it's to keep us from going crazy."
(That sure sounds like a very poorly written Portal fanfiction.)
He hums under his breath, tapping his fingers against his chest, a part of him just relaxing at the flatness in there; it seems he's doomed to be a freak in any world he ever goes to, no matter what, and the thought makes him laugh bitterly, bringing a hand close to his face, admiring it for a too long second. If whatever Pomni is saying is true, he's stuck in a game and of course, of course he'd get the 'cute' avatar out of all the options, if there really are any— and the word is thrown around in his mind for a moment longer than it should, venomous, a vile taste clawing its way up his throat and sitting too comfortably on his tongue.
It's just a stupid word, nothing more than that.
Men stuck in a cartoonish rabbit body can be cute.
(Real men can. It doesn't apply fabricated ones, does it?)
God, he needs to drown himself somewhere.
"I know it's a lot." Pomni adds after a moment, dragging him out of yet another spiral, and Jax lets his hand drop, looking at her. She's smiling gently, that same understanding expression in her face, one that he's almost allowing himself to appreciate. "But it gets… less messy, eventually."
(He highly doubts that.)
“And how long have you been here?”
“Me? Months, I think. I kinda stopped counting when I reached the 90 days mark because it was driving me a little bit crazy. Everyone else has been here for years.”
She shrugs, but there’s something in her tone that says she’s not sharing everything, something that feels too dark and too heavy and he notices the moment she swallows it back, just smiling at him again as if this whole ordeal is just another normal day— and maybe it is, for her. For a moment he wonders how long it’ll take for him to break that badly. Considering everything he’s made of, he doubts it’ll take too long.
A chime rings somewhere up the tent roof, startling him, ears perking up before he could even notice; the discomfort at his stupid new body is easily replaced by something else, cold and gnawing at the bottom of his stomach that lasts for no longer than a moment, subduing as quickly as it's tried to take over when Pomni pushes herself up, brushing the dirt off her pants before her eyes fall on him again.
"That's to let us know dinner is ready. Hungry?"
And Jax takes a second to think about it, to let his mind catch up with whatever is going on with his body; and he's not exactly hungry, really, but that's nothing new. Forgetting to eat is something he's done too many times before, and this time he has a really good excuse to let that simple thing slip to the back of his mind. Still, he forces himself to stand up, ignoring how his body sways for just a second before he finds his balance again— and Pomni does reach out, ready to catch him, quickly wrapping her arms around herself as if to mask the gesture.
(He appreciates it anyway.)
"Sorry, I'm not really good with this whole 'welcome session' thing." The acrobat mumbles, the pinwheel in her eyes spinning a bit faster than before, or maybe it's his mind trying to play still more tricks on him. "But… uh, we don't really need to eat or sleep, digital world and all that. But it helps. And it's a good way to meet everyone else, too."
"Do I really have to?"
The question slips before Jax could really think it through and maybe, just maybe he should've kept his mouth shut— Pomni stares at him again with that weird, unreadable expression but a moment later she just relaxes, her shoulders wobbling as she tries to stifle a chuckle, and the rabbit feels tension melting away from his frame, letting a lazy grin make its way to his mouth; it's easy, almost natural, and a part of him wants him to fight it, to not let himself settle effortlessly but what else is he supposed to do right now? Have another meltdown?
(And maybe he should. Maybe that's what he needs to really wake up from that stupid dream but his body is already drained enough, and Pomni is still being nice.)
"Better sooner than later, believe me." She says, her smile still a bit too amused before her face softens into a too gentle expression. "You ready?"
Jax just nods mutely, mind still struggling between panicking and trying to understand what the hell happened so far; and it's a lot, and maybe it's the last thing he should be thinking about right now, when Pomni is walking out of the tent, and he kicks himself into motion, following her closely, easy to ignore the gnawing, dreadful feelings in the back of his mind when he needs to focus on moving. The sun has disappeared from the sky, hidden behind carnival rides and the circus tent, the path leading back to the main area now littered with small lanterns shining in a multitude of colors.
The walk is silent, a bit too much so, but his attention snaps fast from a thing to another, curiosity taking over easily. For one, he's pretty sure Pomni had taken him around the carnival before and he can understand why, or maybe he was so lost he didn't pay attention at all. The carnival extends for far longer than he'd noticed, the night lights making it easier for him to see every detail a little bit better; weird, really, how he hasn't seen all of this when lost in the woods, or maybe it was just his brain playing tricks on him back then, making him focus on the circus and nothing else— and the tent is massive, easy to spot even behind the tallest of rides. Mannequins (NPCs, that's what Pomni had said, right?) walk by or gather at attractions and different stalls, all but ignoring them.
(Maybe it's for the better, really.)
“Some advice?” Pomni’s voice is quiet when they finally reach the circus tent but she stops right outside the entrance, hand resting on the flap. “Ragatha is gonna baby the shit out of you, but she means well. She's a good person, it's just… you'll figure it out by yourself. Ribbit will be a pain in the ass if she’s around, just don't take it personally. Kinger is… he’ll say a lot of stuff that makes no sense most of the time, but he's great. Zooble is grumpy as all hell, but they’re not that bad as long as you don’t mess with Gangle. Gangle is nice, just be careful with her comedy mask.”
“And no warning about you, toots?” He asks, just to be funny.
And it works, if her amused smile is an indication of anything. The acrobat disappears behind the tent flap before he could even say something else and Jax takes in a deep breath, forces himself to follow close before any ounce of courage (if that’s what he can call it) leaves his body. The main tent is strangely quiet, feeling bigger, more oppressive now, the empty seats covered in shadows, spotlights dangling lazily around the stage— and thankfully Pomni doesn’t stop, keeps moving across the ring, making a beeline towards another set of flaps he hasn’t even noticed until now; the artists’ entrance or something like that, probably.
He treks by her side again, matching her pace, suddenly hyperaware of their size difference. It hadn’t even dawned on him during the show how small she is compared to his new body, and the memory flares up with the subtly of a cannon ball to his stomach, his face burning in a bit too many different shades of pink; it’d meant nothing, just his body falling into autopilot, forcing him into a role he didn’t even know he was supposed to take. And she’d accepted it, had let him hold her and be her partner up there.
(It’d been just part of the show, nothing else.)
There are soft noises of conversation when they cross the entrance, the tent suddenly more lively, less suffocating, and Jax feels his body relaxing ever so slowly, almost against his better judgment. His eyes roam around the new area, taking notice of props all over the floor, pushed aside and out of the way but still close enough to grab when needed, ropes and silk dangling from the darkness above, a few plastic-like animals laying near the tent walls, sleeping soundly, fake scenarios resting against poles. Everything is still too cartoonish, colors too vivid, but here it feels more real, less fabricated.
(Or maybe he’s already losing his mind. He can’t really tell.)
He spots a table weirdly placed in the middle of the backstage, the other cast members already seated and chatting between themselves. He doesn’t see the frog, and maybe, just maybe it’s a good thing— and then the ragdoll from before spots him, snapping her head fast in his direction, and the conversation dies immediately, too many pairs of eyes suddenly on him. He feels his breath hitching for a moment, anxiety quick to wrap its ugly vines around his lungs and squeeze hard; Pomni walks by, her hand brushing his arm ever so softly, and Jax chases closely, jumping on the empty chair by her side, his eyes glued to the plate in front of him.
The food looks so fake he feels like throwing up.
Or maybe it’s just the anxiety digging its claws deep around his throat.
“Hey there, new stuff.” The voice on his left is calm, sounding almost bored, and Jax spares a glance just to check who’s trying to talk to him; the weird toybox-like character he’s spotted during the show, and it’s easier to see more details this close up, how every part looks completely different from each other, a chaos of pieces that makes no sense at all, clinging to a multicolored torso. “I’m Zooble. This is Gangle.”
They motion to the person? sitting by their side, a white doll-figurine covered in red ribbons wrapped tightly around her limbs, most of it hidden under a crimson shawl, face nothing but a comedy mask. The doll-girl is doodling, papers spread in front of her instead of a bowl of fake food, but she raises the mask to smile at him, waving a hand — if the end of a ribbon could really be described as one — before looking down again. He’s not sure how she’s managing to hold a pencil to draw and maybe that should be the least of his concerns.
(He makes a mental note to never complain about his body again. It’s bad and he hates every second he remembers what he looks like, but it could’ve been way worse.)
“I’m Ragatha.” The ragdoll chirps in, her voice too sweet, and it takes him all his willpower not to cringe at her tone; he doesn’t miss Pomni groaning under her breath, her warning from earlier finally making some sense in his brain. “I’m very sorry for how we acted after the show. We shouldn’t have jumped on you like that.”
“A bit too late for that.” Pomni grumbles softly, sounding so done with a conversation she’s not even part of yet, and Jax can’t help but grin at her, his ears twitching slightly; and she might’ve noticed him staring, their gaze meeting for a second before she rolls her pinwheel eyes and looks away, but he doesn’t miss the soft smile tugging on the corner of her lips.
Ragatha might’ve heard her as well, her good eye landing on the acrobat for a long moment, face twisted in something like regret that’s quickly wiped away when she looks at him again, smiling too nicely, too friendly.
“A-anyway! This is Kinger.” The ragdoll motions to her side, a chess piece, covered in what he can only assume is a magician outfit, just sitting there quietly, a pair of semi-floating eyes staring right at him but gaze glassy and empty of any thought, and Jax can’t help but stare back, mesmerized— until the guy-magician yelps loudly, almost making him jump out of his skin, his fur standing on end. Pomni snorts by his side, and there’s a sudden urge to punt her that comes and goes quickly. “And you’ve met Pomni, of course. We’re just missing Ribbit.”
“Thank fuck for that.” Zooble rolls their eyes, ignoring the annoyed glance Ragatha throws at them. “Don’t act like you’re not happy they’re not here. She’s been a fucking menace for months, and I don’t need another traumatized newbie on their very first day. Do you?” The ragdoll recoils as if the toybox had slapped her in the face, her gaze moving away from them quickly. “I thought so. Got a name yet, new stuff?”
The wave of anxiety comes back with full force, choking him, but a small part of him is so, so grateful for being through at least three different meltdowns already, for Pomni being around and pulling that trigger earlier— and his eyes fall on her again, looking for something he couldn’t really understand but needs anyway; comfort, maybe, or some sort of reassurance. She smiles, offering a thumbs up, and he takes a deep breath, tries to ground himself on the encouragement.
“Yea, I...” He manages to say, cringing at how cracked his voice sounds. God he just wishes they’d stop staring at him already, treating him like a new zoo attraction but isn’t that what he is now, nothing but a circus freak, roleplaying for a bunch of faceless NPCs? Pomni taps his wrist gently, dragging him out of a hole he didn’t even notice he was digging, and he sighs, trying to relax. “Jax, your new guy. Hate to be here with y’all.”
And Zooble makes an amused noise under their breath (which is weird because they don’t even have a mouth to begin with), nodding ever so softly before their gaze returns to whatever Gangle is doodling, their conversation too low for him to pick up even with his dumb ears, and he relaxes a bit more, letting his body slump on the chair. He can hear Pomni talking to someone else, maybe Ragatha, no one’s attention on him anymore. Good. He closes his eyes, rests his head on his hands to maybe, just maybe push back the migraine threatening to overcome his senses. For a digital handcrafted world, pain sure feels too real for his liking.
(He can’t deny the impossible normalcy around the dinner table is too comfortable, too inviting, and maybe it’s the adrenaline finally, finally starting to wear off now that he’s finding it easier and easier to relax and accept this new reality.)
“Jax?” Ragatha’s voice rings a bit too loud, laced with concern, his body flinching at the sudden noise he hasn’t been expecting, and he presses his hands deep against his eyes, as if that’d be enough to make the throbbing pain in his temples disappear like magic. It doesn’t, of course, because the universe hates him. “Are you okay? I know it’s hard to adapt but everything will be fine, you’ll see!”
The groan escapes him too more aggressive than he’s first intended, his ears hanging low, the weight almost too much on his shoulders— no, it’s the alien feeling against his bare skin, on his fur, and he needs all of his self-control to keep his hands from either tugging those damn things or just pressing his eyes back into his skull until they popped; the idea seems dangerously tempting because at least the pain would be somewhere else.
“Go crash somewhere, dude.” Zooble suggests, and he can hear them shifting their weight on the chair, probably trying to look at someone else beside him. “Need help getting some gear? I have some extra shit in my trailer that I don’t use anymore.”
“Thanks, Zooble.” Pomni, that’s who the weird character is talking to, and her voice is more friendly than before. Maybe she’s smiling, but he can’t bring himself to open his eyes to check. “I already got him blankets and a hammock, and Caine said he’ll have a trailer ready tomorrow morning. Just need to figure out where you wanna sleep, Jax.” And her hand rests on his forearm, almost tentative. “Everyone’s fine with taking you in tonight.”
“He shouldn’t share a tent with Ribbit.” There’s a timid voice coming from Zooble’s side, and it takes him a second to notice it’s the ribbon-doll girl talking, probably, the only one that hadn’t said anything to him so far. “I-I mean!” And she stammers, suddenly anxious. She must be one of those shy types, not that he’s really that interested right now, when the pain seems to be moving, as if trying to split his skull in half. God he’s so tired, his mind lagging so badly it should be comical. “S-she’s not… a good company for newcomers, ‘s a-all.”
“Ribbit’s been sleeping in her trailer for weeks, nothing to—” The little acrobat squeezes his forearm gently, fingers brushing on his fur ever so slightly; it still sends a shiver down his spine, the sensation too alien still, and she seems to notice, taking her hand away quickly— and he almost whimpers, almost lets himself be pathetic enough to ask her to keep holding him, but her hand presses against his forehead, a soft, surprised noise escaping her. “Fuck. He’s burning up.”
Someone says something he doesn’t understand, eyes and limbs too heavy to move; a little part of his mind registers it should hurt when his head hits the table, but the thought is washed away quickly and darkness swallows him whole.