Work Text:
Zooble
It was a lie.
It had been the kind with blinding white lights that had flashed red just the moment before, paired with a cheery smile, and the classic ‘you completed an adventure!’ pop-up. It had been the reflection of light that felt so real but it was, as everything in that damned hellscape, engineered.
The way it had started out—Zooble had so much hope. Fastened their parts together, just about convinced it’d be the last time they’d have to see the replaceable pieces as their own—and then everything, it had left Zooble in pieces.
The walk back to the circus is torturous. 3D models dragging a world that’s just ones and zeroes, and it sounds like plastic, the way their feet interact with the floor. Zooble had briefly hoped that their hopes and dreams being crushed would at least dull the saturation of the circus—but no. It’s still the same damned primary colours, attacking every single one of Zooble’s senses. It’s like needles in their eyes—the colours, the truth, futures they’d imagined in the cracks of the what-ifs.
Robotically, everyone retreats to their rooms. The methodical, melodical slamming of doors, and their plastic, painted faces on each one. Almost in time, almost in rhythm. Zooble’s the last one to get there, having to force themself through every step. Why not collapse, right there? But Zooble comes to the conclusion it’d be a lot more comfortable in their bed.
The last door to close is Jax’s, and maybe Zooble’s imagining it, but there’s a cloud, a shadow, hanging around it. Not that Zooble’s surprised—if the walk back had been awkward for anyone, it had been awkward for Jax. Everyone had kept their distance from each other, but especially him. Was it anger? Confusion? Sympathy? Even Zooble didn’t know—only that some social code dictated that he wanted the space—but did he need it?
It’s as if Zooble’s body is possessed, the way their feet put one foot in front of the other, until they halt in front of Jax’s door and—they knock.
There’s no answer. Just silence.
The urge to stop blares in their mind, bouncing off the walls of their head, and it seems logical—but not quite right. So they stay there, in front of the door for ten seconds, before pushing the door open gently.
Dark. It’s dark. The now open door shines some light in, but the room is still bathed in shadows. Zooble’s eyes widen.
It’s pink. The room is almost entirely pink. Stripy walls, a playmat, and Zooble can make out the vague, dulled outline of rainbows and clouds on the walls. Opening the door wider reveals a pink desk…a mat of some sort on top of it. In the far corner, the bed is a cutesy patterned quilt, just big enough for Jax’s body. Unlike, well, any other room in the circus, this one smells like—plastic? Like someone had made cookies and stirred in a helping of melted Ziploc bags instead of chocolate chips. Pleasant for a moment—but then it singes your nostrils.
“Jax…?” Zooble’s voice echoes. No answer—but there’s a figure on the bed, crouched in on themself, with familiar long ears. It’s statuesque—not admirably, but unnervingly.
Zooble tries again. “Are you good, dude? Well, I guess not but I…” Zooble’s voice trails off. He isn’t responding—hell, he doesn’t even seem alive.
Footsteps loud against the ground, Zooble walks toward the bed, sits on it. Why the fuck am I doing this?—the question enters Zooble’s mind as the fabric hits their body. This guy doesn’t like you, has severely bullied your best friend, and almost-kinda chose this digital hellscape over freedom—for you. It’s a powerful thought, but a more powerful one emerges: He’s human.
Jax sits up, suddenly. Almost like he’s programmed to—and his eyes are blank. They’re dots against a yellow backdrop, and they stare not at Zooble—but behind them. Then, he holds up his hands, right up to his face, watching them tremble. Every instinct of Zooble yells at them to scream—but the loudest one orders them to stay.
“It’s all a lie,” Jax’s voice is that of a ghost, like someone’s stripped his very essence from him.
Zooble looks away, blinks like it’s practice, not instinct.
“Caine is awful for that.”
An expression crosses Jax’s—narrowed eyes, the quirk of his mouth—but it disappears instantly.
“I don’t blame you,” Zooble finds themself saying—and meaning. “I want to, but I don’t. At the end of the day, we’re just people with someone to go home to—and something we fear.”
“Don’t be so sure about that,” Jax mutters. It’s Zooble’s turn to furrow their brows, tilt their head to the side.
“I am,” Zooble’s voice is surprisingly soothing.
“You’re not,” Jax counters. “If you were, you wouldn’t be here.”
What the hell is this guy on about?—In their irritation, the thought crosses Zooble.
“That’s ridiculous,” Zooble scoffs. “I have empathy, Jax.”
“That much I’m sure of,” Jax’s voice is completely even, and all the more terrifying for it. “You’re here for yourself—just admit it.”
“Uh, f*** you dude,” Zooble hisses, annoyance rising in their body—but a part of them panics. “I happen to care about you, somehow.”
“No, God!” Jax’s voice carries emotion for the first time—desperation? “You think you’re so selfless? You think you have empathy? Now isn’t that just wonderful—but you can drop the act.”
“You think I’m pretending to care?” Zooble yells.
Jax grabs Zooble’s hand, catching them by surprise. Before they can wriggle away, Jax slams the hand over Jax’s chest, a little to his left. “Tell me, Zooble, what do you feel?”
Zooble shuts their eyes, turns away. Under Jax’s stone cold grip, their fingers tremble, quiver.
“Nothing.” Jax whispers. “There’s nothing there, for any of us. Wanna feel yours too? Wanna pretend to count each heartbeat?”
“Stop,” Zooble shudders, pulling their hand away. Jax doesn’t stop them, but their hand finds itself on Zooble’s chest anyway. Frantically, their hands move—one side of their body to the other, up their body, down their body, until finally they drop their hand beside them.
Jax looks up at Zooble, something like fire burning in their eyes. “We don’t have hearts. Blood. Muscle. Bone.”
Nothing tethers us.
“Why pretend that the rest of it matters?”
Nothing defines us.
“Why act like our consciences mean anything?”
Then just how easily can I lose myself?
“How can you say that?” Zooble’s voice quivers—for the first time since they arrived here. “Our consciences—they’re everything—”
“—a showpony,” Jax retorts. “Come on, Zoobs, cry. Cry, so I can ask you if it means anything.”
Zooble visions blurs, head spins. The sensation that they’re going to throw up washes over them temporarily—and Zooble revels in it, but it doesn't quite stick.
And the worst part of it all is what it means—that it all means nothing. If tears are just water, if love is just chemicals, if anguish is just noise—then consciousness is just suffering.
But what are we without it?
——
Jax
It’s all a lie.
It had been red. It had almost been bloodshed—almost.
“I was right...? I can't believe I was RIGHT!”
Nothing is real. Nothing matters.
“That….that’s what you think?” Zooble’s voice quivers, but it gains strength. Jax tilts his head to his side. “Consciousness is a showpony? Tears are...chemicals? Love? Grief? Is that…is that how you survive?”
It’s the only way to survive.
“What, and you think I’d rather be you? No thanks.”
Fighting for humanity. Clinging to a concept. A raft in an ocean of blood—made of sticks. Jax would rather swim.
“Is that…how you justify everything?” Zooble’s voice is dangerously low. “The bullying, not attending anybody’s funeral…is that…how?”
Jax’s chest tightens—a strange, strange sensation. Something inside him shifts.
“Nothing matters.”
“Everything matters.”
What does that mean for me?
Zooble locks eyes with Jax. “What would it mean, Jax? If everything mattered?”
Sincerity. Complete sincerity—and curiosity. In their degradation, in their ruthlessness, one question that welcomes total honesty—and silence. No room for quips or insults, just the blaring question: if you stripped yourself down, what would you find?
And if it’s nothing, does that nothing have substance?
Jax freezes, then turns away. Feels a bubbling sensation that he hasn’t felt in a long time—so long he can’t name it. The only thing he knows is that it looms over him, and weighs down on him, and makes it unbearable to look in the mirror—lest he sees other faces. Ribbit. Kaufie. Ragatha. Gangle. Even Pomni…to see those faces and see their eyes and every emotion in them. Inescapable proof that they were real, and what that reality meant for him.
“I…” but the words fail Jax. “This is survival.”
“It’s a prison.”
“Like you’re any different,” Jax’s voice comes out as a pained laugh. “What? You think staring out at the CGI birds is going to bring back your conscience? Your humanity? They’re birds. It’s animation. It means nothing.”
Zooble shakes their head, and it’s as if everything that Jax considered himself to be is falling apart. “The birds don’t make us human—the fact that we witness them does.”
No. Stop. Please.
“Noticing the birds.”
Shut up. Please.
“Seeing their wounds—understanding the suffering.”
God no, not this. Nothing but this.
“And choosing something—anything—anyway.”
The final blow.
Something in Jax retreats, curls into a ball. Every layer of him lays there, peeled back, stripped like his skin is coming apart, and despite himself, underneath is flesh and bones. In Zooble’s world…there’s a beacon that steers them toward consciousness, humanity. In Jax’s world, the very existence of that beacon is his greatest antonym—and Jax doesn’t know what will become of him if it exists, if it existed after all.
Because if he meant anything…then what did his choice to hit the red button mean?
What did it mean for everyone else?
No. Too hard. Can’t…please don’t make me…
But the question pounds Jax’s mind anyway, and there’s just no answer. It’s as if he’s upturning empty pockets—he’s got nothing for show.
“F***.” Jax whispers, mostly to himself. He looks to Zooble, hoping to search for clarity in their eyes, but they seem just as haunted. Staring, staring…out at nothing.
For the first time in many, many years, Jax reaches his hand out, places it on Zooble’s leg. They look at Jax with empty eyes, but he recognises that lack-of-an-expression: it’s the most silent, most pained form of thank-you. Jax sits in it, and lets the sentiment breathe.