Chapter Text
Chosen
Scouting & Meeting
You were a Casanova in your life, although you barely remember much. Not that it mattered, you found out soon enough that lust and every other sin came with no real price. No infernos, devils, goat-legged men spewing brimstone to dribble down the whole nine layers. Nor was there, actually, angels or a heaven. There was just the Underground, your master, and your job.
And your job was to track down that troublesome long-nosed little puppet boy. So, circling back to the task at hand, getting caught up in yet another existential crisis could wait, you were a casanova in your time. A harlot, a honey tongued temptress; and if there was one thing you did remember, it was how to get the attention of whom you wanted.
The best way to do that was to pretend they held absolutely none of your own attention. So, that was naturally the plan! Geppetto, the old coot, was so far up his own back side you’d think he was some sort of oroboros. Your appearance may catch his-and everyone else's-eye, less now you’d managed to bargain with your Master just enough to allow you to wear proper clothing, but that wasn’t enough, you needed to stoke his fire, get his goat. Geppetto needed to assume that he was not your first choice.
Obviously, of course he was, well no, since it wasn’t your choice to do any of this, but never mind that. You needed to become a peruser of puppetry, it wasn’t as if you could just waltz in and demand to see his ‘Little wooden boy’- direct questions like that would get you sent to cells or worse an oubliette. Again. You needed to butter him up, let you in, let his guard down enough to make an offhand comment about his supposed son. That’d of course, come later, first you needed to get under his skin before you could get into his shop and get your hands on the boy.
Luckily for you, there appeared to be some competition across the canal. Competition was a stretch, as the other shop looked two stiff breezes away from becoming a pyre. A ghastly looking hovel with crooked lettering, spider-cracked windows, and peeling paint. Your eyes had begun to fail as of late, so the puppets behind the glass were blurred so much so you couldn’t yet attest to their quality. Not that it mattered at all, you didn’t actually care.
Geppetto sat dozing outside of his own lavish establishment, two and a half bottles of red wine shared on a small wooden table sat between him and another man. You’d need to work out who he was, too, senility was common amongst the old so maybe the younger man was a guard dog of sorts.
You know you stick out like a sore thumb on a double amputee, with your sallow skin and eyes the colour of choleric. Luckily due to your bargain, your shorn hair was hidden, modern fashion wasn’t to your taste but you’d already pushed your luck. Head to toe in black, covered bar your ghoulish face. Like an orthodox priest with the plague. But since the old man looked to be dipping in and out of consciousness, you needed to initiate your plan, speed up the process.
You kick the side of a market stall, sending a few scant fruits scattering from the display and across the street. An apple plops down into the canal and the vendor calls at you with wild gesticulations. The old man snorts, shuffles, slaps the table in front of him with a careless hand so hard the glasses and bottles jostle; his friend zeros in on you. You don’t need to actually pay attention to know how he reacts, but you can hear him speak to the woodworker, murmuring something, you see out of the corner of your blurry eye that Geppetto has been made aware of your presence. Lovely.
Limping over the bridge you lament that your legs are getting stiffer these days, too. You used to be nimble, spring heeled, and for lack of a better term, graceful. Not anymore, not since you chose to question your role. But why dwell on that now? You might’ve had your chain yanked but it wasn’t time for the plague pit just yet- not when Master was so short staffed and since the others that’d been your cohorts had seemingly begun to vanish, you knew not where, it wasn’t as if you were in a position to be replaced.
You arrive outside the shack, squinting up at the signage, laughable compared to the palace across the way. You keep your expression as dead as the rest of you but inside somewhere there’s a disembodied eye roll, even Sisyphus would’ve thrown in the towel, unlike whichever dullard pulled a stunt like this, trying to compete with a master of a craft directly parallel to their own shoddy attempt.
Still you’re mildly surprised when you turn your attention to the window, the puppets themselves stare back at you through the thin glass. They’re not… bad. Odd little things with exaggerated faces and various colours found nowhere in actual fashion. Beasts both fantastical and factual, men, women, and bug eyed cherub children. They didn’t carry the aristocratic air of the old man’s portfolio bearing no gilding or demure soft faces of impassivity. The luster was nowhere to be seen, but they definitely had personality. You’d probably have the opinion that you preferred these puppets, but then again, you didn’t have an opinion you had a job to do.
Entering the shop you seem to startle the proprietor as hard as a bull would in a china shop. From behind a counter he yelps, the stool shakes underneath him and teeters precariously, the carving knife in his hand almost slits his throat and his other hand almost launches the wooden block it held across the shop. You estimate its trajectory would’ve smashed the already cracked mirror on the wall left of your head.
He’s young enough, not a lad, but not a coffin dodger like Geppetto or the middle aged crony of his. Long brown curls sprout from his head and frame an olive-skinned heart shaped face. High cheekbones, strong nose, large owlish eyes, crooked teeth, and long tapered fingers. Oh yeah, a ‘Starving Artist’ if there ever was one. All delicate and unimposing with an air of mania that smacks you in the face instantly. He recovers quickly, the look of shock switching after a stunned half second, morphing into an almost disbelieving smile. He’s elated by your presence, and if he thought anything of your appearance, it was considered and compartmentalised within a single twitch of a long thin eyebrow.
How you respond to that is anyone's guess, because you’re not about to entertain the small flicker in your cobwebbed ribs. It has been such a long time since horror has not been directed your way, followed quickly by nervous revulsion.
“Aha! Ahahah- Wel,” he almost tips from the stool again, but recovers enough to hop off with some grace, “WELCOME, kind lady! Welcome! I’m CESARE!” He gestures proudly to himself, narrowly avoiding stabbing his own heart with the carving knife as he makes his way over to you. “The maker of these extraordinary marionettes you see before you, each one unique, each one carved with raw, UNADULTERATED prowess. What can I interest you in today?”
You blink, that was a lot. Cesare apparently never learned the art of an inside voice, nor humility. Italian was not your first language, or your second, third, or fourth but you knew enough to reply coherently. Once you recovered from the man’s opener, which definitely needed work. He’s close enough now you can practically feel the vibrating excitement.
“I would like…” what would you like, “to see what you have.”
It has been some time since you’ve actually needed to speak. And although you’d like to believe you’ve still kept most of your articulation, it appears it doesn’t reach your mouth.
The young man stared gormlessly at you for a moment, and once again in lightning quick fashion pivoted again to smile broadly. You couldn’t really define his hesitation, maybe he wasn’t used to custom (probably) or maybe he’d gotten close enough to truly take in your face. You backed up a little but he seemed not to notice as he hopped back, eyes not leaving you as he reached behind him to deposit his tools. The shop is small enough that he really didn’t need to go far to reach the counter once more.
“Oh! Well, of course! Of course! I’ve got hundreds of beautiful boys and girls I can show you! Each one is unique, like I said! No two are the same, that’s a Cesare guarantee!” He placed his hands on his hips, whipping his head around so fast his curls could barely keep up, he hummed, thought pulled his eyebrows together and pursed his lips, clicking his tongue over and over again. It was maddening.
“Ah-HA!” He finally squawked, after leaving enough time between his last outburst to make you worry he’d suffered a bleed to the brain. He scuttles over to a puppet strung up by the shop entrance, a Spanish matador with a twirled mustache and red cape, with ease he plucks it from where he swayed in the breeze from the open door. Within his hand in an instant it springs to action a sudden burst of animation as he manipulates it to fling its cape aside, revealing an attempt at a splendid blue outfit made from cheap materials. How easily this bizarre man brings the thing to life. “Rogue Juan! A daring bull fighter who doesn’t play by the rules. How’s that for a slice of fried gold, huh?!”
Before you could respond, what with you had no idea, with his empty hand he clicks his fingers and begins to crab walk sideways to the back of the shop. Returning quickly with another puppet, and as easily as he had with his right he directs this one with his left. A jester, with a large gaping red mouth and yellow diamond suit.
“This lil’ man is Jinglesnap Jones! The best court jester to ever single-handedly perform a one-man show of Querolus and NOT die!” The jester, Jinglesnap, bows and flicks out both arms producing strings of bunting. You wonder if Jinglesnap ever dreams of the stage, when he hangs from the ceiling in the dark of night once Cesare is at rest and has no use for him.
In response to your silence Cesare pouts, pupils ricocheting between each puppet. He returns Rogue Juan to his hook, and points towards you with a look of deep thought. “No, no wait, wait a minute, no, I know. You’re a lady who enjoys the darker things in life aren’t you? You wanna go Catholic church, catacombs, creepy crawlers, you want something macabre.”
Jinglesnap is dragged away from your view, back into the gloom of the inner shelves. Before you have time to process why that feels like something grabbing whatever is left of your heart and squeezing, the Grim Reaper is shoved into your face, quite literally. A crude little skeleton inside a black red spattered robe. Its face holds neither malice or sorrow, it’s completely expressionless. It’s like looking in a mirror.
“Only two things are certain in life, death and taxes,” Cesare declares bombastically as the reaper slices the air with its scythe and the robe rustles slightly in a false gust of wind. “Why not have the reminder with this funky little fella! The scythe’s not actually sharp, by the way, that’d fuck with the strings.” He pokes it with a finger then runs the tip down the whole ‘blade’ leaving only a slight white mark on his skin.
“I want a wooden boy.” You say, abruptly enough that he twitches in surprise.
“A wooden boy?”
“A wooden boy.”
Cesare looks around, as if to answer with every single example of a rough estimation of a ‘boy’ that adorns the walls and ceiling. Each one’s lifeless eyes are completely and utterly useless to you. You feel sorry for him, clearly of no formal education and ever so slightly touched in the head. You might need to explain. Then again, why, and why were you so upfront about it? Maybe, you’ve truly stopped caring.
“I want a life-sized, wooden boy. As lifelike as possible.” You say, aware now your expression has not moved an inch this entire time. You take the time to raise your eyebrows slightly, to seem more engaged. “I heard one was available on this street?”
With dawning clarity, Cesare breaks eye contact and visibility deflates. His shoulders slump and he frowns, the reaper lowers almost to the ground. “Ah, I see.” He murmurs, the first quiet words he’s uttered. You feel guilty, odd. “You’re in the wrong place, madam. If you’re looking for pretty dolls with stigmata, you’ll be wanting the ructabunde across the street.”
You look away from him, taking in each beady and shiny eye that watches you from the walls and ceiling. Some in focus and some blurry in the low light and you wonder how he manages to craft such detail in such dark gloom. You drag yourself further into the shop, brushing past Cesare who recoils slightly, no doubt at the cold touch of your arm against his. You pass many well made marionettes, you’ve decided that they are, you’ve given yourself a little opinion, as a treat. Things of simple splendor, made with the best materials a meagre budget could muster and passion. One draws you in despite being tucked away in the corner by the stairs, behind a Pierrot and some approximation of man in a cat costume, it hides.
“What is this one?” You point, your finger trembles. It’s been trembling ever since you questioned your Master. Cesare muscles in around you to follow your arm only to bristle when he notices what you're gesturing towards. His skin reddens and he shuffles to part the other puppets. Clearing his throat, he carefully untangles the strings of a small, chipped and dulled grey donkey.
It’s old, the oldest one here you can tell. It’s crude compared to the others he’s shown you, a wobbly smile under large painted black eyes with blobs of white. The strings are yellowed and frayed, and its paint is chipping so much so a few flecks flutter to the floor.
“Asino. Creative, I know. He’s the second I ever made, the first one being some kind of lumpy nutcracker guy,” he shrugs, it strikes you that he is still quiet “he’s looong gone.” Cesare is impossibly gentle with the donkey, thin strings held up upon two manipulators for each hand. Hobbling hooves move on frail joints. You know the feeling. Not as mobile as the others, not as finessed, but for some reason you feel the need to clarify.
“I like him.” You say, as Asino sways slightly. Cesare somehow manages to become redder, the apples of his cheeks flushing and skin burning you from such a short distance. He looks down at the donkey, gentle still, and stammers.
“He’s uh, he’s not for sale.” He coughs awkwardly and looks anywhere that isn’t your direction. You nod, this has gone on long enough and the old coot is bound to have noticed just how long you’ve been in here by now. You make your way to the door, hearing the strangled squeak behind you but paying no mind. Once he’s quickly if not carefully returned the donkey to the corner he follows after you. “Sorry! Wait, hold your horses, I mean, I can make you another one?! Unique! All yours!”
“No thank you, but I am grateful you allowed me to look.”
He frowns, ruddy cheeks changing in hue to something less bashful. You can’t remember if yours ever did the same. He rounds his counter again, not bothering to follow you to the door. Apparently he isn’t above throwing a tantrum.
“Lemme guess, you’re still wanting a ‘wooden boy’ that only one old fossil could provide .”
He grumbles, and you turn to him and he’s stood with hands upon his hips once more. He’s frowning still, but not at you, but at Geppettos through the window and the strings, with a single mindedness you summarise he’s escaped to, to avoid feeling the sting of rejection.
“It’s not for me, actually.” You stare at him unblinking and his seething concentration is broken as he stares back. “My Master, it’s his request. It doesn’t matter what I want.”
Cesare’s mouth is pressed into a thin line as he studies you, brown eyes flicking up and down. You wonder what he sees.
“Riiight.” He says after an almost uncomfortable silence. “Wh-”
“May I offer a word of advice?” You interrupt him, and he bristles.
“Knock yourself out.”
“You won’t get many customers if you hide inside here all day, you must endeavour to attract a crowd.”
With crossed arms, he rolls his eyes, you’re beginning to think he’s less of a deliberate ass, and more that he can’t help it. He’s about as socially gifted as yourself, only he possesses the gift of expression.
“I believe you could entice patrons if you actually ventured out there,” you side eye the street, Geppetto’s shop is a blur, so you look back to Cesare instead.
He actually seems to consider your words, and that’s the first time that’s happened in eons. There’s a feeling wriggling in your belly, and you don’t have the heart to stamp it down.
“More flies with honey, I get you.” You can see the gears in his head, thoughts probably just as fast as the rest of him. Within a blink he remembers his mood, and the frown is back on his face. “Well, thanks for the suggestion. But if you’re not going to buy anything…” He shrugs, petulant once more.
An idea crosses your mind, maybe you could take your own advice. You weren’t about to start shouting in the street like an unhinged town crier, which is almost definitely what the young man will end up doing. But, maybe you could prolong your hunt, reel Geppetto in, on edge, guessing and seething. Put on a show, as it were, and if you were to entertain this lunatic you could scout the area without seeming more suspicious than you already were.
“You said you could make me a donkey, yes?”
Cesare blinks again, you can’t decide if he’s more reminiscent of an owl or a fish. Whatever fit he was throwing was defenestrated in an instant, replaced with suspicion. Now that’s far more familiar.
“Yeeeees?” He says slowly.
“I’ve changed my mind, my Master has given me far more than is needed for one marionette.”
“Clearly you haven’t seen Geppetto’s prices.” He interrupts before catching himself, remembering some thoughts are better left internal. You sigh, and he shrugs in way of an apology.
“Make me one, a donkey, I shall have it for myself. I will be here until I’ve acquired that which my Master wishes of me. How much time would it take you to craft such a thing?”
Clearly he’s taken aback, warring confusion and nervous excitement battle on his face before something clicks and he straightens up to grabs his tools up as if to begin immediately.
“Uh, I, uh-” he stutters, stammers, brushes wood chips from the counter as he flounders. “I’ll need some time, if you want it to be good! Not that I’m bad, I’m great! I’m great! But you know, Rome wasn’t built in a day! The basilica over St. Peter’s tomb wasn’t a rush job, I need time to get it perfect. But,” He jolts, hand reaching out to stop you as if you were halfway out the door already. “But, if you give me a month? I’ll work day and night! Usually it’d take around two but I can see you are a busy lady on the go! So, for you, for you, it’ll be two.Three.Three months tops. No, no; two, or one. What works best?”
“Two.” You say and you don’t know why, you know you’ll get it in the neck from the Master, usually your work doesn’t take that long. Then again, this puppet-boy hasn’t been seen by anyone, to the point you wonder if you’re being led on a wild goose chase just for the cruelty in retaliation for your outspokenness.
“Two months. Got it. Got it, two months.” He rubs his chin, the knife now precariously close to his under eye. “I’ll need payment, obviously, but uh, let's say you give me half now, half at completion?”
Coins clatter down on the desk, causing him to jolt much like a startled cat. You already know it’s probably the largest sum he’s ever been given, given the look of his shop, maybe even more than he’s seen in his life judging by his face.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!" He blurts and without a trace of decorum he discards his tools and rakes the coins towards him. “You weren’t kidding, your Master is loaded.”
“I will return to monitor your progress. Once a week, this time, every week until it is done.”
“Yes ma’am, hell with rates like this you’re welcome to set up shop!” Catching himself, he coughs again, the red returns to his face and he doesn’t look you in the eye. “Ahem, I mean, yes. Yes, that’ll be fine madam. Thank you. I will endeavour to make you a perfect companion! All the donkeys of Bethlehem won’t even come close to how brilliant your steed shall be! It’ll be glorious, a beauty that no man on Earth could match, not even that old afternoon farmer Geppetto. Mark my words.”
He holds out a hand for you to shake, perhaps he even intended to bow to you and kiss your cold flesh, as if you were a queen. You keep your arms at your sides, and begin to the door and if he finds this to be an insult he doesn’t show it, instead he holds the coins in his hands and stares after you in awe.
“Farewell, my lady! I’ll be here! Working away! Sunrise, sunset, doesn’t matter! The canal could rise to the rooftops and I’ll still be here! I guarantee you!”
Not bothering to bid the young man a farewell, you exit the shop and hear him begin to laugh, it’s incredulous, joyful, manic muffled by the door. Whatever, you know none of that matters, Cesare doesn’t matter, the marionettes don’t matter, nothing matters but the work.
And thus you make your way slowly back across the canal, the throng of voices around you are about as clear as they’d be under the water below you. Geppetto gets up out of his chair as you come nearer, his friend approaches.
You smile, and feel the horrible little (imaginary) pinching strings hauling up your cheeks, and walk right on by.