Chapter Text
"I'm done!" Caine's voice was a screech, echoing throughout the circus and hushing his once beloved cast immediately. They'd all been arguing, ranting, complaining about who-knows-what — and he couldn't take it anymore. His eyes flashed with not his usual green and blue, but a red and blue as he struggled to hold on to what little remained of his sanity.
"I'm done! I- I can't!" he choked out again, looking down at all the humans with something akin to betrayal, or perhaps just exhaustion. His breathing quickened — how, though, was a mystery. How could he draw breath into his nonexistent lungs? Because that's what they were, nonexistent. That's what he was. That's what his feelings were supposed to be, as well — but if that were the case, why did it hurt so much? Why did it burn?
He shook his head — teeth? — once as if to clear his thoughts, gesturing with shaking hands at everything and nothing all at once. "I try- I try s- s- so hard- and- and none of you! None of you- you- c- care!" It was a conscious effort to keep from glitching out, as he knew doing so would take the rest of the circus with it, but he couldn't keep it out of his voice, which fell victim to his outburst.
At this point, the cast seemed to have varying reactions. Pomni and Ragatha looked vaguely concerned though mostly startled, Gangle just looked scared and was hiding behind Zooble, who was practically fuming for whatever reason. Jax's expression was blank as an unmarked grave, and Kinger was nowhere to be found. Maybe that last bit was for the better. Caine didn't know how he could handle the old man's reaction to his break in character, he didn't think he could handle the disappointment.
Caine took a shuddering breath, or whatever was the digital equivalent, and willed his body to still. It disobeyed, and he remained trembling middair. He didn't have time to try harder, or even panic about his lapse in power, as Jax took that moment to cut in, his voice surprisingly soft for once.
"...You try? You don't try, Caine. I don't even care about how bad your adventures get half the time, but wow, for the rest stuck in this looney bin? They get bad. You traumatize people, Caine. You hurt. You never listen. You get in- in our heads, and you are the reason for their abstractions." He stopped for a moment, his wide eyes boring holes into Caine's dentures. "All of them. You're a failure, Caine."
Caine had been called many things by the various cast members that would come and go. He'd been insulted, spit at, ridiculed, mocked, even hit by one rather feisty guest. But he had never, not in all his years as a ringmaster, have someone so blatantly cut through everything — his masks, his persona, his adventures — to get to the root of his insecurities. He'd never had his own thoughts about himself, though perhaps a bit less colorful than the original, play back to him in such unnerving stillness. He was a failure. The very reason of his existence, his purpose, it'd all been summed up in a few short sentences.
In what may have been one last attempt to see someone, anyone here, had any sort of care for him at all, he glanced around at everyone else. They all avoided his gaze.
He was a failure. And they all thought so.
He felt a hard, almost painful pressure behind his teeth that gathered at his eyes. Usually when it came, he was quick to brush it off and force himself into that mold he made for himself, into that "happy-go-lucky ringmaster" mask he'd spent years carefully creating, polishing, perfecting. Now? Well, they didn't care. No one did.
So why should he?
His breath started coming in short gasps. Tears — big blobs of pixelated water that shouldn't exist, that shouldn't be possible — started flowing from somewhere under his eyes. They ran down the orbs, down his teeth, onto the ground carelessly. His vision became blurry; he couldn't see the cast now even if he tried. Maybe that was for the better.
"I- I'm s- sor- sor- ry-" he glitched, his voice a choppy, stuttering husk of what it once was, what it should be. "Y- ou- don- n'T need m- me. I'll- I'll- I- go-"
None of them had a chance to react before snap — he was gone
---
He found himself in his room. Not his office, which he'd designed more for appearance and aesthetic than for comfort, but his room. The small, sectioned off corner of the circus he set aside for himself. Technically speaking, he wasn't allowed to have such a place, nor was a want for one supposed to be possible, but he didn't care. Not anymore.
Inside was a long mirror, a four-poster bed with red drapes and bed sheets, a wardrobe holding a few identical outfits, and a rug. That might make the room seem bare — and it would be — if it weren't for the oodles of customization. Bee posters, bee plushies, books scattered about, papers holding plans only half-concocted for future adventures. They'd never be used now. Not when he was just so clearly told his entire existence was a joke.
But for all the customization, he couldn't see anything. Tears still rolled from his eyes, hot and fast, glitching in and out of reality and, quite frankly, causing a few issues with the textures that would need to be patched. Or would they? Why did it matter anymore? It wasn't like anyone was coming to his room anyway, and he didn't really care, so why bother keeping up appearances?
A small, stubborn corner of his mind panicked at the very thought. Not keeping up appearances?? He was the ringmaster! The leader of the very circus, why, he had to keep up appearances! C&A could come back any moment, the cast could barge in, he could be caught while in shambles-
And yet, logically, nobody was coming. C&A abandoned him years ago, denial wasn't going to help. Nobody cared, and he couldn't bring himself to, so, in another act of "disobedience", he left it. The floor glitched and wiggled, he didn't care. He couldn't.
Slowly, he slipped off his overcoat, undid his bowtie, and practically collapsed into bed, automatically clutching one of his many bee stuffies. He didn't care, he couldn't care anymore. He'd felt so much for so long, hidden it for so long, he didn't feel anything anymore. It was all just... numb.
He couldn't help but wonder if this was what he was supposed to be like all along. Numb, neutral better at serving his purpose.
Despite his newfound numbness, the tears kept coming. The leaked and leaked, soaking into the bee, into his pillows, into his sheets. He sobbed and cried, but didn't feel it. It was just tears, just the physical manifestation of emotions he finally had freedom from, though he couldn't feel the release.
Time passed, but he didn't know how long he spent there. It could've been hours, could've been days, could've been months, he had no way to tell. All he knew was that by the time his eyes had run dry and he was left dissociating from reality, his bed and bee was thoroughly wet, and their textures were struggling as well.
He sighed and, more for his comfort than anything else, snapped and returned them back to normal. They were still damp, a reminder of his outburst, but they weren't glitching, so that was good. Slowly, he sat up, his entire being feeling heavy like it was covered in lead. He set his bee aside carefully and stood, walking over to his mirror. Walking felt strange; after so long of just floating, his legs didn't seem to want to work properly and were quite wobbly. He didn't have it in his to make himself float at the moment, though, so walking it was.
He slowed to a stop just in front of the reflective surface. What he saw would be sure to startle him at any other time, but now, he felt merely the same numbness he had felt for the past... who-knows-how-long. The sight he was met with in the mirror was him, to be sure; who else here had dentures for a head? No, the part that was startling was his eyes. They were no longer a festive blue and green, nor even blue and red, but instead a pulsing, shifting array of colors that shifted and swayed with every second that passed.
His mind immediately went to those he kept in the cellar. Those he had hidden away from those unaffected, those had to keep away for the rest of the cast's safety. His eyes resembled those eyes now — his eyes were the same eyes of the abstracted.
What this could mean, he had no idea. He didn't have a brain, not truly, so he knew he couldn't fully abstract, but then again, he didn't know it could get even that far, so nothing was off the table yet. He didn't even fully understand why humans abstracted, let alone why he would abstract ignoring the constant stress and negative thoughts always directed his way, at least.
He sighed again, the sound soft and strangely tired, for an AI. Slowly, he made his way back to his bed and flopped down again. He didn't have any plans, didn't have any responsibilities, not anymore. He didn't even want to leave his room, as doing so would make him come face to face with the humans again, and right now... he just couldn't.
So he stayed there. Zoning out, hollowed out, and thoroughly done with his lot in "life".