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"What a long day..." Ragatha muses, filling the charged silence as she carries Zooble's head in one arm like a flowerpot, and their body under her other like a log. Her steps through the open space of the circus are slow and limped, her body aching with exhaustion. She's glad she can't bruise.
"No s[#!$]," Zooble replies, with no further comment.
It's rare for Ragatha to say anything negative about the adventures— or about anything, really. She's always been Caine's advocate, in a sense, being generally of the opinion that there's always some good in each one: scenic views, novel locales, friendly NPCs, fun setpieces, cool moments here and there. They are always, at a minimum, an opportunity to do something aside from sit around, argue with eachother, and think about the cellar. With a carefully-balanced attitude and some mental work, she can even enjoy them. Artificial novelty, in the small doses Caine offers, is just enough to endure their colorful purgatory.
Usually.
But, reading between Ragatha's over-cheery lines, it's possible to get a sense of what she absolutely hates by taking note of what she consistently declines to comment on:
She will never, ever, ever go to bat for one of the in-house adventures. She hates them. If she has to be stuck in the tent, she'd much prefer it be for time off. Feeling safe in the circus is hard enough as it is, and every new memory of being chased, hunted down, beaten on, or plagued by puzzles just adds more mud to the pool of traumatic associations she has with what few usable rooms exist in her daily life.
Caine didn't even summon them or reveal there was an adventure today, before she had walked out of her room and come face to face with 'The Blockhead'— some garbled, uninspired mishmash of letter blocks, old slinkys, and various other malice-infused children's toys.
Ragatha comes the stairs up to the living quarters, pausing at the foot of them and sighing heavily.
"Can you even make it up? I'm surprised you can walk at all," Zooble asks, sounding more annoyed than concerned.
"I'll be fine. One of the perks of being a ragdoll, I guess!" she assures, voice weak. Her heart aches as the dissonance of her bright tone clashes with her miserable mood. "Getting beaten on doesn't do much to me. Aside from it being unpleasant, I mean."
"Guess I'm the opposite. I'm a f[#$&]ing upright set of bowling pins."
"I... I wouldn't put it like that," she says, frowning, remembering the moment she found what Blockhead had left of them with visceral clarity.
Most of the NPCs Caine made had some gimmick or purpose, some role to play or utility to provide the adventure. The Blockhead's deal was that he was going to beat the shit out of you, and he wouldn't stop until someone else got his attention. And, since he was made of blocks, each hit was multiplied by the circus's dodgy collision physics, so whoever he hit was getting thrown into or through the wall. On first meeting, he had pummelled Ragatha into the floor so viciously that she had started clipping through it. Apparently satisfied with her loudly-audible suffering or maybe just distracted by someone else, he left her there, being battered through and by the geometry a mere five feet from her room.
Every morning before she opens her door she's going to remember that now, she thinks. Awesome. As if facing a new day here wasn't already the hardest part. Drag yourself out of bed, accept that you may be brutalized the instant you step outside, face the possibility that not everyone else made it through the night, and then finally, 'it's time for another adventure!'
Nobody else's luck had been any better. Only Jax had escaped unscathed, since he hadn't bothered to leave his room at all. Gangle got her comedy mask shattered into dust by a hit so gnarly that she's still unconscious. Kaufmo is afraid of heights, so of course, Blockhead threw him up to the large tubes snaking about the tent's rafters, where he got stuck for hours, clinging desperately to the sloped plastic. Kinger's fort was completely demolished, with him in it.
But Zooble got the worst of it. By the time Blockhead got to them, there was nobody left standing to draw his ire, and so he wailed and wailed and wailed on them until every one of their limbs and parts had burst off of their body and been splintered into tiny plastic fragments. He was only satisfied once they were fully in pieces, probably assuming at that point that they must be dead.
Eventually, assumedly driven by vengeance, Kinger found a bowling ball and dropped it from one of the balconies onto Blockhead's eponymous blocky head, cracking it into splinters with a sound like a ten-pin strike. And that was the end of that. What an adventure.
She's exhausted. They all are. She wants so dearly to just go back to bed, but no, no, her work isn't done. Someone has to put Zooble back together again, and maybe because they had so viciously gone off on him after the adventure was over, Caine hadn't bothered to fix them.
The silence drags on as Ragatha agonizingly marches up the stairs, taking a single step up with her right foot, then letting her left catch up before waiting a moment to ensure she keeps her balance, her tired teetering threatening to put a fall down the stairs as a cherry on top of the godawful morning they had already endured.
"I'm... sorry today's enemy was so, uh, tuned against you," she pipes up as she reaches the first landing, pausing to regain her strength. "But, it's— I mean it's like a video game, right? We all have different… damage resistances and weaknesses. You just got the short end, with today's enemy. Maybe next time, we'll be running from a big angry pair of scissors— you'll be saving the day, then!"
"And Gangle would be on the chopping block," Zooble counters, popping her sentiment like a party balloon at a funeral.
Her frown worsens as the tatters of her effort flutters to the floor around her feet. "Ah, I... guess so."
"You shouldn't even say s[#!$] like that, you'll give Caine ideas. We all got the short end today. Last thing we need is for him to start actually playing to our 'weaknesses' or whatever the hell."
Ragatha stares guiltily at the floor as she resumes up the stairs. "Y-You're right, I take it back. Let's just hope that one doesn't happen."
"Does it even matter what we hope?"
"I... think it does. Maybe not tangibly. But hope makes things feel a lot easier," she tries to smile, not that they can see it anyway.
"Makes things feel worse, when your hopes get crushed. Whatever, just, forget about it," Zooble warns.
Forgetting about it is simply not an option for her. Ragatha had already spent much of the day attempting triage for her beleaguered fellow cast-members. First, she had helped the ever-more irritable Kaufmo down from the rafters. Second, she helped Kinger rebuild his fort, which led to step three: drafting him to carry the still-comatose Gangle back to her room so she could wait out her amazing digital concussion. All of that had come after Ragatha had helped herself, of course, managing to catch onto the doorframe and pull herself out of the floor where Blockhead (and everyone else) had left her. Once she was done puking up black ooze, and after she had taken a minute to herself to ball up and cry, that was that, and she had gotten to work.
Zooble wound up last on her list to help. She regrets leaving them decapitated for so long, but she had to prioritize, and their condition was the most stable. Now though, it was their turn, and even if they were getting the thinnest of dregs from the scraped-thin bottom of her barrel, she couldn't just let their misery stand unsoothed.
"Maybe..." she tries to console after another long pause, taken partially just to catch her breath after finally getting to the top of the stairs. "I just, try not to think of it like that... I mean, we're almost back to your room, so that's something at least, right? I'm hopeful that we'll have you back together and right as rain in no-time. So there's that."
They say nothing. She continues, struggling with every word. "I know today was hard, but, there's... it's important to... um... I don't know, m-maybe if you—"
"Ragatha. Shut the f[#!$] up. Please."
Their words sink into her chest like a dagger, her heart diving down into her stomach for cover. She almost stumbles to the floor, tripping over herself for a moment before her autopilot manages to regain footing. Her steps slow for a moment, before picking up speed, Zooble's body in her arms feeling a lot heavier than it did a moment ago.
She complies with their request for the rest of her limped journey to their room. She presses Zooble's torso to the wood like it's an oversized keycard to disable the lock, and shoulders her way through. Quickly, she sets down the only two pieces left of them on the unmade bed. She's about to go for the parts bin, but hesitates, unsure if she's allowed to touch it. A long moment drags by. Her body goes stiff, her chest tightens, and her skin itches.
"...Can you, like, get me some arms, at least? Please?" Zooble asks impatiently, staring up at her as she freezes like a deer in headlights.
Ragatha blinks once, then twice, then nods, her mouth pulled flat and thin and her pupil shrunken to a needlepoint. She grabs whatever's at the top of the bin, scooping up what she assumes are two arms and two legs and carrying them over to the bed like a bundle of tinder. She hesitates again before setting them down next to their head on the sheet. Her most recent command completed, Ragatha resumes her instinctual freeze. An awkward, silent moment passes.
"...Do you want me to just f[#$%]ing stare at 'em?" Their eyes twitch as they glance between her and the limbs.
She shakes her head and takes one of the arms, fumbling to try to figure out how it fits into their bean-shaped body. Her shaky hands are no help.
"Are you concussed or something?"
She can't figure it— looks easy enough whenever they do it, but the limb just won't click in properly. Her breath quickens. She tries pushing the arm in with both hands, her simulated muscles straining past their limit as she shakes uncontrollably. Her eye starts to twitch as she fights with the last of her strength to keep her vice-clenched teeth from splitting her face into a sneer.
"...Hello?"
"You said shut-up," she mutters, unable to meet their eyes, not that they can really see her anyway, at their angle.
"Okay? Sorry? Why are you being like a f[#$%]ing little kid about it—"
At first, Ragatha thinks the loud snap that echoes about the room is her own psyche cracking in half. She realizes, dimly, as the words and the fury that spawned them rise up from her throat like vomit, as freeze skips over flight and lands on fight, that she just broke one of their arms in two.
"I'M TRYING! I am sorry if that's not good enough, I am sorry if I annoy you, I am SORRY that you hate me, and I am so, SO SORRY, that nobody else can EVER be F[#$%]ED TO HELP YOU INSTEAD! But guess what? Right now, I'm ALL YOU GOT! AND I AM TRYING! MY! BEST!"
Her over-strained voice breaks into a sob as tears soak her cheek. Ashamed, she turns away, only to meet herself in the mirrors. She looks at the floor instead, hands over her mouth, already able to taste the soap that it deserves.
I sound just like her, she thinks, and it doubles her over like a livershot. The echo of her outburst haunts the room, leaving a heavy, deafening after-presence despite the oppressive, sob-interspersed silence.
Zooble stares at her shivering back, wishing they were absolutely fucking anywhere else— they'd take a shallow grave, at this point. "Just leave me here, man. I'll figure it out."
"...I-I don't want to do that to you," she chokes back.
"Look, Ragatha, I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry for being such an a[$%!&%#], but— just— F[#$%]!" They can feel tears coming for them, too, the ever-mounting stress reaching a fever pitch. They shout the feelings away, voice cracking. They do not cry in front of others, not anymore. "I don't have any better for you right now, okay!? I'm sorry! I'm at the end of my f[$%&]ing rope, here! I know you're trying, and I know I need your help, and I know it's hard for you too, but I just— I can't f[$&%]ing DO THIS ANYMORE!" They yell their voice ragged. It bends, then splinters, then disintegrates all together, the breathy death-like rattle that comes out of them sounding no more dignified than the sob it covered up.
Ragatha stands up straight, staring into the mirror. In it, she sees a broken girl, with one tear-sodden eye and a quivering lip. She knows her well. She knows how to motivate her.
Zooble's words echo in her mind, filling the space inside her head like natural gas, warping her vision and smothering out her good sense. They need you, she says voicelessly to the girl in the glass. When she does not move, she adds, You are going to help them.
You will do it for free.
You will receive nothing back.
You will not show your pain.
You will do everything right.
The girl answers with a faint nod, understanding the commands intuitively. Fists clenched at her side, she turns around to face her task.
"It's alright," she says, too quiet. Again. "It's alright, Zooble. We can talk in a minute— let's get you back together, first."
"Okay...?" they respond, barely even managing a whisper.
"How do I attach this?" She asks patiently, holding up the intact arm.
"F[$%&], I don't know, just, push hard. Usually works."
"Is there a trick?"
"Twist it, maybe? Like a pill bottle or something... look, Ragatha—"
There's a loud cartoony suction-cup pop! as the arm snaps into their disembodied chest. "I'm gonna get your legs on, then your head. We can get another arm last, okay?" She doesn't wait for their response, which they do not give. The childsafe-twist proves to be the key, as she manages to snap two legs onto their 'chassis' without issue.
Zooble watches in silence. They wish, so desperately, that they had hands to put their face into, that they had skin to scratch red, that they had a nose and a mouth and cheeks that could spell the twisting feeling in the heart they also lack. They remain immobile on the bed, reduced to a tire chock with mismatched eyes, wishing, hoping for all these things they'll never have again, and feeling the hopeless reality grind them down and down into dust.
They wonder if abstracting is easy. Easier than this, surely.
"Head next. Ready?" Again, her question is rhetorical. She hastily picks them up, and snaps them into place.
Immediately, feeling from their plastic body returns to them, and in return, all the horrid emotion in their head pours down into their chest, their legs, and their arm, as each piece of them shivers.
"Is that good? Can you move?"
They answer by leaning forward, finally putting their head in their hand like they've wanted to all day. "...Yeah. Thanks. You... should probably just get out of here."
She stands a healthy distance away, arms folded in front of her, proper and polite like a dutiful servant. "Are you sure?"
"Yep. I can take it from here. Thanks again. Just... I'll see you around. Take care of yourself." Their eyes stay clamped shut, head still in their hand.
Hesitantly, Ragatha turns on her heel and wordlessly sees herself out. She closes their door gently behind her, lifting it up on the hinge and pre-turning the knob. She faces out into the hall, standing in place, hands still folded together. Her eyes stare dumbly into empty air as she remains statuesque.
Meanwhile, Zooble gets themselves standing, trudging over to their parts bin. They have the functional minimum already, but they just don't feel right without at least 2 arms and some sort of accessory. They can't have hair, or ears, or a face, or piercings, but they can have a stupid pointer-arrow sticking out of their head.
They dig through the bin, looking for another arm first. They push past the same ones they always do, hideous and wrong-feeling and unwanted, hoping to find something even remotely appealing before they scrape the bottom.
"No... no... not you... hell no..." they mutter, growing more aggravated by the second as already-dismissed pieces pour back into their way like sand, the noise of all the plastic clunking together already driving them mad. They start tossing pieces out, letting them scatter onto the floor, their patience running paper-thin.
"There's gotta be something..." They topple the bin over and shovel its contents out into a big heap. It's hard to even tell which shapes are supposed to be what; more than once they reach for what looks like an acceptable arm only to discover it's another headpiece or leg.
Despite their scribbling eyes and heaving breath, their anger begins to smolder out as they are slowly forced to accept that, no, there isn't anything. There isn't a single piece in here they don't loathe. There isn't even one they feel they could tolerate, right now. The life bleeds out of them as a broken sigh, as they behold the mess they made just to end up nowhere.
They think of the parts they lost today, wishing they could have them back. It'd taken over an hour to pick them out this morning— they've even taken to waking up early, so they have time before the adventure starts, just in case Caine doesn't give them the chance to skip. Like today.
They didn't like those pieces, they hated them, same as the rest, but at least they had already accepted that, today. At least their dignity had already taken the blow of having to put together this stupid, ugly body and look themselves in their three mirrors to see, instead of themselves, of the face and body and hair and skin and human being they had spent their whole fucking life building up, piece by piece, instead, they get to see—
They almost vomit, catching the sight of themselves in the mirror. But then, they're not sure if they can, without a mouth.
Something breaks inside them. The last coherent thought they have is a quiet recognition that they don't know if it can ever be fixed again.
Picking up a combat-booted, crinkle-cut-french-fry leg from the scattered heap, Zooble swings it like a bat into the middle mirror, aiming for the hideous thing screaming back at them. The glass shatters on the first hit, spilling onto the floor, into the heap of parts. The screaming doesn't pause for even a moment as they swing wildly at the other mirrors. The left one takes a few extra hits, each blow weaving a razor-thin spiderweb of cracks through the pane before it, too, shatters to pieces. They set after the mirror on the right, finally gasping for air as they roughly kick and wade through all the wayward plastic in their way.
"F[$%&] YOU! F[$%&] YOU!" They roar, wailing on the last mirror, letting more and more of the rage in, praying for some magical turning point where it'll stop feeling like hell and start feeling like the catharsis they so dearly crave.
The booted leg snaps on the last hit, the ankle dangling by a scrap of plastic that pales white as it bends. The mirrors are gone, their reflection is dead, and yet they don't feel even the slightest bit better. They scream one last time, whipping the broken leg across the room and into their door. They lose their balance and trip over and into the pile, landing amidst all the loathsome plastic, nearly indistinguishable from it as they ball up.
"...God d[&$%#!]," Zooble sobs, face pressed to the floor, trying to push all the grief back in. It spills out anyway. They lay in a pool of their pain and pieces, the lines between them and all the plastic components melted down to nothing. They are the heap, they are the broken leg by the door, they are plastic, they are just an ugly toy, and there is simply no possible sum of their worthless parts that will ever change that.
The tears dry up fast, the truth pouring more dismay into them than they could ever cry back out. They struggle to remain breathing, each inhale slow and shaky, each exhale fast and harsh.
On the other side of the door, Ragatha finally manages to sum up the courage to knock.
"Zooble, i-it's me again, please open up," she begs with shivers in her voice.
"Just GO!" they cry, barely able to lift themselves off the floor, let alone summon enough energy to yell. "Why are you still—? Leave me the f[#%&] alone!"
"I'm serious. This is important. Just, please, please open this door!" she insists, desperate.
Groaning, they drag themselves to their feet and stumble towards the door, pulling it open. They're almost snapped right out of it when they get a look at Ragatha, more afraid than they've ever seen her.
Stunned, exhausted, and confused, they say plainly, "Just, come in. Say your bit."
Her face barely changes when she sees the state of the room— she heard it all happen, after all. She quickly shuts the door behind her. "Zooble, you really, really shouldn't be alone right now."
They shake their head. "I'll live."
She shakes hers back faster. "No you won't."
Their eyes open wide, struck by her certainty. She said it as cold hard fact, and they can tell by the look in her eye that she's learned whatever lesson she's trying to share the hard way.
"...You mean—?"
"I do. I've— it's common, after someone loses their temper. That's why... I try not to get angry," she says. Among other reasons, she doesn't. "The aftermath is always dangerous."
They wheeze like they've been gutpunched. "So, what, we can't even get mad about being in this s[#$!]-hole, or that's it?"
"You can! It's... we don't really know... exactly what causes... it," she tiptoes through her words as if navigating a minefield. "So, you can be angry. But, when it's like this, after a really bad day, it's... it's just not safe, Zooble. A-And, I don't— I couldn't forgive myself, if I just let it happen to you. You still haven't been here all that long. I really don't want to fail you like that."
They bristle. "So new guy gets the life vest. And what, all you oldheads are on your own, good luck, sink or swim?"
"Pretty much."
They wait for her to walk it back, or append something else, or qualify her statement like she usually does. Nothing comes. She stares sadly back at them, the wet sheen on her eye glinting in the unpleasant silvery glow of their room.
"...That's bleak, Ragatha." They never thought they'd see the day, but they find themselves wishing for another one of her silver linings.
"I’m sorry," she says instead. "...I don't mean that, once you've been here awhile, that I'm going to give up on you— for the record. But, when you've been here as long as— for a long time, then... well, at least to me, I feel like I owe it to the newer members to help them stay afloat."
"What about you? And everyone else? We all had a s[%$!] day today."
"What about me," she shakes her head. "And, I know! I'm scared, Zooble! I'm scared for all of us! I wish I could be in five places at once, but, I just can't, so I— I'm trying! I tried to give everyone some attention today. I tried to make sure everyone's okay. It's—"
"What about you, man? I mean it," they insist. "I’ve never seen you like this. You probably shouldn't be alone either."
"Well, I'm here, right? Two birds, one stone?" she offers a barely-extant guilty smile. "But, it really is more important to me that nobody else has to have a close-call. Or worse."
"...Have you? Had a 'close call'?"
They almost stagger back from the look she gives them. Deep haggard lines circle her eye, framing the dark well behind it. She stares at something untellable, a thousand yards behind them. For a brief moment, they almost think they can see its reflection in her glassy eye.
"I've lost count."
"What... what's it like, when—"
"Please don't ask me that," she pleads with a haunting, desperate whisper.
They spend what feels like minutes staring back at her, that ghostly, heavy silence returning to the room. In actuality, Zooble probably only makes it six seconds before they stumble back onto the gaudy yellow-cushioned bench in front of their bed.
"...I feel like I've been waiting for you to get real about our situation since I got here," they admit. "But now that we're here, it's..."
"Not what you hoped, is it? When even I can't find something nice to say, just makes you feel like we're all f[#!$]ed, huh?" Bitter vindication rings in her tone, but they can tell it's not really aimed at them.
Zooble nods. "Pretty much. It's still sort-of satisfying, finally hearing you be honest. But, I'm sorry I doubted your methods, Rags. You've been here long enough. Makes sense that you would've found something that works."
Ragatha shakes her head and sits carefully down next to them. "It doesn't work. I just don't know what else to try. I've lost—" she gasps, pulling the crack in her voice back into her chest. Deep breath. "I've lost a lot of people here, Zooble. I don't know how to stop it from happening again. I don't have the answers. I'm just... I can be here for you. That's all I got." She stares numbly forward, too tired to stop herself, to put her smile back on, or to say anything better than the truth.
She's also too tired to jump, when she feels their hand on her shoulder, though it surprises her nonetheless. She looks over, meeting their eyes.
"...Thank you," they say to her, like a promise. "For being here. For trying."
They don't know that, in the coming months, she'll twist their words into proof that she needs to rebuild her facade stronger than ever. They don't know that she's going to double down before she ever opens back up. They don't know that she'll need to hear this again, eventually, that the basin behind her dam will fill steadily back up to its brim. But they do know, from the fresh tears in her eye and the infinitesimal smile breaking through her weary face, that more than anything, she needed to hear it.
"You're welcome," she finally gets to say.
Their hand slides off her shoulder and thumps down onto the bench as they both stare forward again, their eyes wandering a maze-like path between all the purple triangles on the wallpaper.
“I’m sorry you had to see me like that,” Ragatha says, as if she isn’t still in it. “It’s been a long time since I’ve gotten to this point around someone. I really don’t like doing that. It’s not me.”
“...It kind of is, even if you never let it out.”
“I don’t want it to be. I don’t want you to think of me like this.”
“Tough,” their tone is gentle, despite their words. “I’ve never really bought your act, you know. I still think of you like you’re a human being. No amount of pretending you’re not is gonna change that.”
She has no answer. Her eyes wander to the floor as she sits with her hands folded in her lap.
"...Is there something I can actually do to help you?" Ragatha eventually asks, quickly appending, "I-It'd be good for both of us, if I could. I can tidy up in here, at least?"
Zooble glances about their crimescene of a room and sighs. They're not about to turn down her offer, but, there's something more pressing on their mind. "That'd be nice. But, uh. Hey. I feel weird asking this, but, could you..."
Ragatha tilts her head, waiting patiently.
They sigh. "I don't have it in me to pick out a new set of parts. It'd be a load off my back if you could just, grab whatever you think is good, so I don't have to think about it."
"Oh, okay. I can do that. Just, whatever catches my eye, I guess? Do you want a specific theme?"
"Nope. Just whatever."
"Okay, then. Feel free to veto any—"
"Not gonna do that. I don't wanna think about it. Just, go nuts. Have fun. I don't care. Make me look stupid, it's impossible not to."
Ragatha gives them a defiant look. "I'm going to make you look cool," she boasts. They roll their eyes as she starts digging through the pile, cleaning as she goes.
She doesn't discuss her process aloud, but they can sort of infer it. Parts she rules out go right back into the bin, organized as neatly as she can by limb-type. She sets any 'maybe's off to the side, by the inexplicable greco-roman column in the corner of their room. Parts she seems to have set her heart on, meanwhile, go by the wall across from them, next to the potted plant. They try not to scrutinize her choices, not wanting to feel the urge to exercise veto rights after all. That would mean thinking about how they're going to look, and they emphatically do not want to do that.
"...Okay, okay," she says, starting to sound like her usual self again, if only slightly. "I'm getting an idea. This'll be kinda fun... sort of like doing a fashion makeover?"
They shrug, neutral on the idea. "I guess so."
"Man... I miss being able to change clothes. My wardrobe was so fun. I usually dressed simple and professional, for my job, but, when I got the chance, I liked to wear something really out there, y'know? Bright colors and zany patterns. Purple and stripes were my favorites, but I liked to experiment," she explains, and her candidates pile starts making more sense. "Heh... people used to tell me I looked like Miss Frizzle."
Zooble snorts. "In a good way?"
"I took it in a good way, at least. The more I heard it, the more I leaned into it. Hmm. Funny where I ended up, then, I guess. 'Please let this be a normal adventure! With Caine? Go to hell!'" she mocks, waving her arms about to sell the bit. To her great satisfaction, she manages to get a quiet little laugh out of them.
"You're just missing the bus," they say.
"—And the lizard. Don't forget the lizard!"
"Didn't take you for a lizard kind of gal."
She shrugs, resuming her dig through the heap, being mindful of the glass. "I like them fine. I'm not big on snakes, but, put some legs back on 'em, and we're cool again."
"You're missing out", they shake their head— they go to cross their arms, too, but they've still only got the one. "Snakes are great. Had a roommate who kept a huge python, for awhile. It was cool. It could open doors."
Ragatha shivers. "To each their own."
They watch as she finishes sorting and tidying— there's still glass everywhere, but the room's already looking much cleaner, and it's only been a few minutes.
First thing's first, she picks out a second arm for them, seeming bashful as she approaches— it's the plain yellow one with the simple gloved hand. Old reliable. If they hadn't overlooked it, maybe they'd have been able to keep their cool. They really should figure out somewhere to put their easier-to-accept parts. Maybe the coat-rack, they think.
"Here, let's get you fully-appendaged, first," she says with a nervous smile, putting one hand gently on their shoulder as she pushes and twists the arm into their side— she uses the lower slot, they note, so she's probably going to double up their wings. They usually don't like to go symmetrical...
They remind themselves that they didn't want to think about it, internally shrugging and letting her do her thing.
She's extra gentle with their body, now that their head is back on their shoulders. Her touch is light and any force applied is carefully ramped up to the barest minimum needed. Their other arm snaps into place perhaps more delicately than they've ever done for themselves.
She gives them an affectionate little pat after their arm pops in, seemingly without thinking. They realize that while they've certainly been touched in the literal sense— dragged, carried, shoved, pulled, and so on— they haven't been touched since they arrived in the circus.
Feels nice, they think, a faint phantom warmth spreading through their shoulder. They clench and release their new (same old) gloved hand, an ephemeral memory of Ragatha's mitts on their arm lingering in the reconnected nerves.
"I think I know what I'm gonna go with... I've picked new legs out, though. Would you mind—"
They don't mind at all, immediately popping both of theirs out and tossing them into the parts bin. They clatter loudly, half dangling out the side.
"Perfect. Though... hmm," she squints, looking perturbed as she marches over to the bin. "I did kinda have a system, here."
"It's my crap? I'll throw it where I want."
"Well, sure it is, but it's my system," she explains, convinced her argument is ironclad as she distributes the two extra variables into her perfectly balanced and utterly inscrutable equation. "Feel free to mess it right back up once I'm gone. But until then, everything in its place!" She warns with a wagging finger.
They try to remain bereft of opinion as she approaches with the rest of her final selections. Despite their efforts, a few charged observations bubble up in their mind. She went with a strongly coordinated palette— all purple and black-and-white, aside from their yellow arms. And, by the looks of it, she opted for as much symmetry as possible. The purple bird wing paired with the purple bat wing. The purple 'classic' boot with the purple witch's boot. Twin zebra-pattern horns, and their big square slant-striped chestpiece.
They'd probably never combine even half of her candidates, left to their own devices. They're relieved to find that they don't much care, having fully abandoned any ownership of their impending appearance.
"Alright, here we are... I went with all my favorite colors, and just, whatever I thought looked neat, I guess!" Ragatha explains, setting her mix down on the bench next to them. "Do... how do you want to do this?"
"What do you mean?"
"Do you want me to, turn around? Or am I putting everything on...?"
"If you don't mind. It's always kind of a pain to do it myself," they answer, telling a half-truth. They've gotten used to 'dressing' themselves, but, well, they have to take what little physical contact they can, here.
Ragatha nods and gets to work, apparently content to be cool about it if they are. She takes a knee, starting with their legs. "Alrighty, left one first... don't kick me," she requests, glancing up at them, thinking back to a lot of close calls with her horses.
"Don't do anything weird down there, and I won't."
"I'm cramming long and colorful things into tight holes here, Zooble, it's already weird."
It takes them a moment to process her joke. It's nothing shocking to them on its own, but from Ragatha? "...Just don't spit on it first," they fire back, testing the waters by tossing a boulder in.
"Hey, if you want it dry, then that's your preference. I don't judge."
Pop. First leg in. They stare down at her in disbelief, a quiet, baffled laugh bubbling out of them.
"Okay, now for the right side..." she continues, not missing a beat, like nothing had happened. They're tempted, oh so tempted, to not let her get away with it, but they decide elsewise. As the moment passes, they imagine this must be how it would feel to catch and release a unicorn from a snare trap.
Pop. That's both legs, now. Zooble helps Ragatha to her feet. As she steps aside to reach for the pair of wings, they take the opportunity to stretch.
"So, you like snakes," she says, starting with the feathered wing. She leans in close, one hand braced again on their shoulder to hold them steady. "How do you feel about birds?"
"Like, any and all birds?"
"Sure."
"They're okay? No strong feelings."
Pop. One wing down. "That's fair. I really love chickens, but, otherwise, I'm about the same. Oh, and owls! I love owls."
"Owls are cool," they agree.
There's a beat of silence as Ragatha spaces out for a moment, before shaking it off and grabbing the batwing. "Sorry for the random questions. I can be quiet, if you prefer."
"You're fine."
"Okay. Just, let me know if I'm annoying you." She steps over to their other side, hand on their shoulder again.
"...You said that you think I hate you, earlier," they remember aloud.
Ragatha tenses, dropping the wing. It clatters loudly to the floor. "U-Uh..." she stammers, grabbing her arm looking tensely back at them.
"Do you actually think I do, or was it just, heat of the moment?"
"...I'm sorry I said that."
They blink. "Not what I asked."
"I think most people hate me. I didn't mean to single you out."
They blink again. "Girl, no. Why would— the hell you think you ever did to me?"
Ragatha goes to pick the fallen wing up, taking it as a perfect excuse to break eye contact. "I don't know. I never know why people do, really. I'm just annoying. And pushy. Oversensitive. Fake. What am I supposed to say?"
"'You're right, it's weird I thought that'?" They suggest.
"Okay. You're right, Zooble. I'm sorry."
Their eyes narrow. Seeing her wince in response, they say: "Alright, let me be real clear about this: I don't hate you, Ragatha."
She shakes her head sadly. "Not yet..."
"Dude, I don't even dislike you. We're alright. You get on my nerves about the same amount anyone else does— a little less, even. I'm not a fan of your whole sunny-side routine, you're kinda overbearing and kinda closed off, but, like, so what? You do you, doesn't really impact me. I can put up with you. You're easy to... exist with, and that counts for a lot, here."
Ordinarily, her brain would radar-lock onto the admission of her faults, blocking out all the rest of what they said, panned out like river mud encasing a nugget of gold. She might've even found a way to needle herself with their last line— her only positive trait is that she's 'easy' company, satisfactorily capable of filling empty space.
Instead, she smiles. She's too tired to do any of what she normally would. All of her walls stay limp on the ground, drawbridges with cut chains, her systems of self-critique fully unable to prevent Zooble from getting through.
She puts her hand back on their shoulder, lining up the batwing. "...Thank you, Zooble. You're—" A good friend, she catches it right before it escapes her mouth. Best not push her luck. "Thank you."
Pop. The other wing snaps in. Ragatha goes to pull her hand away, but before she can, Zooble takes it in theirs, palm-in-palm, elbow bent. "Hey. I'm with you, Rags," they say with a firm nod. "We're all we got, right?"
Ragatha squeezes tight, nodding back. "I'm with you too. We all have to stick together, if we want to survive this. For... however long we can."
Her other hand covers the back of theirs, sandwiching their glove between her mitts. They're half expecting her to say something more, but instead, she simply stares down at their hand in hers. Without thought, both of them linger in the moment, drawn to the rare spark of shared tenderness the way cold hands and curled fingers unfurl before a campfire.
The moment passes without ceremony or comment. Ragatha moves on, doing both horns at the same time; Zooble braces their head with their palms, to keep the pressure off their flower-stem neck. Po-Pop. All that's left is the chest piece. She leans down to fix it on like a bowtie.
"Here, this one's always tricky..." Zooble mutters, placing their hands overtop hers, guiding her to the right spot. With one last pop, the striped block snaps into place. "There. Guess that's that."
"How do you feel?" Ragatha asks, hopeful. "Do you like it?"
They glance down at themselves, closing and releasing their fists, their hands still warm. With the mirrors gone, there's no real way to see the full picture. Thank god. "Hate to burst your bubble, but, probably not, no. But I can't see myself right now, and I didn't have to spend another hour trying things out. So, I don't like it, but I'm happy. Thanks, Rags."
She finds one more tired smile left in her, just for them. "That's fair. I think you look cool, but, I get it. I'm happy I could help, at least..." Her head lists to one side as she stares at one of their horns, eye narrowing.
"What's up?"
"...I think you're missing one last thing."
Ragatha reaches up to her hair, undoing her purple bow and slipping it free with a deft motion. Zooble watches in dull surprise, not having expected that it could come off. Their surprise only grows as she reaches up and ties it like a gift's ribbon around their right-side horn.
"There. Just a, um, personal touch," she says shyly. "I'll get a new one anyway, next time Caine resets me. Y-You don't have to keep it, if you don't want to, I just thought..."
"I like it," they answer, standing from the bench and placing a hand on her shoulder. They don't need to see it to know. They can tell by the glint in her eye that she's glad, but there's no smiles left. By now, the both of them can barely still stand, exhaustion both physical and mental having set in deep.
Zooble sighs, long and heavy. "What a long f[#!$]ing day."
An airy laugh escapes Ragatha as she shakes her head, "No kidding, right? And it's only noon. Mama needs to lie down..."
Mama? "Yeah, no kidding," they agree, letting it slide. "You think we're both in the clear? To, uh, be alone, get some sleep. Like with what you talked about earlier."
"Oh… Er... I don't know, it's hard to say. Maybe we shouldn't."
"Not an option. Let's just go to the lounge. Take a couch each. We can keep an eye on eachother, that way."
Ragatha nods, weighing the idea. "Could work... I don't know if I can make it all the way back down there, though. My legs feel like jelly."
"Well, mine are fresh. C'mon," they say, scooping her up under their arm like a spare pillow. She weighs basically nothing, as expected.
"H-Hey...!" her limbs dangle limply, refusing to back up her protest. "...I guess that works."
There's no words left to exchange, and no breath to carry them even if there were. There's more Ragatha feels she ought to say, more qualifications, more comfort, more apologies. She reflects guiltily that she received as much condolence as she had given.
As the motion of their uneven steps rocks her to sleep, she supposes, maybe, she can just call it a fair trade and leave it at that.