Chapter Text
One.
One key is all it takes.
One key on a keyboard, and the improbable mistakes of someone who should know better.
7 years of computer science for this, huh?
To be living in a reality fake to him, but real to… him.
…What is he doing with his life?
Kinger stared vacantly into a crack in the wall as the others recollected themselves from the shock and horror they just experienced. He lifted his bucket ever-so-slightly, gazing into the crack that opened up into an immeasurably large void.
Such cracks will only grow in size and number, as this broken game crumbles apart further into dysfunctional code.
It was a sinking ship that lost its anchor.
…not that the anchor helped with much, anyway.
This program was going to die eventually. It was now just a slow burn sped up into a violent wildfire.
Caine is just prolonging their fates.
Was.
Caine was prolonging their fates.
Nothing can last forever, nothing can be immortal, for nothing is built to withstand being immortal.
Kinger felt like a lethargic moth living its final days, flapping its wings toward a dim lantern.
But eventually someone had to snap him out of his disassociation.
“Hey, Kinger.”
Kinger snapped his gaze toward the source of the voice.
It was none other than Zooble.
They kept a calm, unbothered posture, but their eyes betrayed how shaken up and exhausted they were from everything.
“Thanks for helping us with.. everything. Really.” Their voice quivered a little. “I always thought you were just a nutcase, but I was wrong.” Kinger chuckled softly. “Well, I cant blame you..”
“Honestly, though,” Zooble continued. “I think you need a break, just as much as we do. Don’t worry about what’s next, we can handle that later.”
Kinger nodded in agreement. Zooble’s calmness in this situation alleviated some of his worries.
“Of course, Zooble. If you need me, I’ll be.. surveying this place.”
Zooble gave him a thumbs up, stared for a little longer, and left to return to the group, who were murmuring to each other in a nervous and anticipating manner.
Surveying was a bit of an overstatement.
It was just an excuse to take a walk and collect his churning emotions and sorrow.
Kinger’s robe dragged along the grayed out floor beneath him as he made his way through the once-familiar circus grounds.
This place became a completely broken mess.
Random, bugged out props were strewn about everywhere—a textureless polygon, an inanimate, blank bubble floating in the air, the disembodied hand of presumably a mannequin NPC—making the place a lot more cluttered.
But also among the mess were the slow cracks that formed along the ground and walls and ceiling.
And some of the objects would fall in, never to be retrieved or seen again.
The all-consuming void that devours everything, no matter its sentimentality and significance.
What a despairing fate to have.
…was that the fate that he had subjected Caine into?
Truly sickening. He wanted to lift his bucket and forget all of this, but he would be a coward to do so.
And she would never have fallen in love with a coward.
And the lone king walks once more.
Kinger knew the circus well, all too well. Every crevice to hide in and every hole to sulk in.
The circus has stayed stagnant for so, so long, it feels uncanny to explore such a monochrome, corrupted landscape that provided such a change from the usual.
Kinger made a turn across a large, dulled block. He stopped abruptly.
There was a huge pile of random objects that seemingly came from the hole situated above, which was shrouded in darkness in such a way that it appeared as if there was a void beyond.
Kinger sighed, glancing at the contents of the pile. He recognized quite a few of them from previous maps and adventures.
But what caught his eye was something sticking out from between a pillow and a beach ball.
A tiny, white hand with an even smaller baton attached to the palm.
What also caught his eye was that… it had color. It was one of the few things that still retained its previous color other than the players themselves.
Kinger approached the peculiar sighting, feeling a twinge of familiarity at the cane.
…
Wait...
Kinger grabbed the hand; it had a soft fabric texture. He tugged on it, but it was stuck inside the heavy pile. Kinger began pulling harder on it, but not too hard—he did not want to accidentally break it. Eventually, after one final good tug, the pile gave way, and the small thing was pulled out of its prison. Kinger stepped back, adjusted his bucket, and lifted the object to take a look at it.
It was a plush. A very familiar-looking one at that.
That striking-yet-small top hat, those shining, curious eyes, and the dapper suit that gave him style.
It was very familiar indeed.
"Oh.. oh, dear, it's you!" Kinger exclaimed in a soft, jovial voice as he brought the plush toy up to his chest in a hug. "Oh... Caine..." he whispered, his voice deepening into a more somber undertone. He gently stroked the back of the plushie's velvet head, it almost felt like petting a kitten. A stiff kitten with very short fur and no body heat.
"I miss you. Tomorrow has yet to come and yet, already, I miss you."
He knelt down and sat the Caine plush on the floor. He patted its head tenderly, the dentures bobbing from the light force—almost lifelike. "I'm sorry," Kinger whispered, choking down a sob. "I am so, so deeply sorry."
It was most likely just some 'easter egg' of Caine's during a past adventure, or even maybe a prize that would've been won at the digital carnival, but that didn't matter to Kinger.
He had a small version of the broken, unloved AI he so neglected to help.
And if he was too late to love and care for the real Caine, maybe he can atone for his guilt by taking care of Caine's remnants.
Maybe. Just, just maybe.
...Kinger let himself weep—just for a little bit—as he tightly embraced the doll.
Everyone was already spread out by the time Kinger returned to where the group was. Pomni was sitting by the stage and talking to Ragatha, who appeared quite shaken up. Gangle was crouched against a wall, drawing in her notepad, while Zooble stood above and watched her quietly, both of them appearing just a bit spaced out by their thoughts. Jax stood alone and separated, taking short, cold glances at the others.
Kinger walked by Gangle and Zooble, the latter giving him a short wave as he passed. He spotted his pillow fort, as well as Pomni and Ragatha, and decided that he'd go ahead and return there. He felt an odd urge to take a nap.
Ragatha glanced toward Jax’s direction as Pomni spoke comforting words to her. “Thanks for the help, Pomni,” said Ragatha. “Thanks for everything.” Pomni smiled softly and nodded. “We need to stick out for each other no matter what,” the jester remarked. “Yeah… I’m going to go check on Jax… he needs someone.” Pomni opened her mouth to say that she could do it instead, but Ragatha was already walking toward the rabbit. Pomni watched them, before feeling someone’s presence behind her.
“Oh, hey Kinger!”
Kinger stopped by Pomni and waved affably. “Hello, Pomni. I was just walking by to go back into my fort. Are you doing okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine..” Pomni’s smile faded a bit as she noticed Kinger’s eyes looked a bit wet. “Are you okay…? You look like you’ve been crying. Did… something happen?”
Kinger’s eyes widened a bit. He had the plushie clutched underneath his robe. “Oh–it’s… nothing to be worried about, Pomni.. It’s…” his voice trailed off. Pomni wore a concerned frown as something then dawned on her. “Is.. is it about…”
Kinger sighed and pulled the Caine plush out of his faded, purple robe. “I.. know it’s something silly, but… this means a whole lot to me. I found it in a junk pile.” Kinger focused his gaze on it once more as he held it in front of Pomni, who listened intently despite her confusion. “I know Caine did bad things.. especially to you guys… but I can’t find it in my heart to hate him. To hate my own creation.”
Pomni nodded, even if internally she felt resentment for the late ringmaster. She respected Kinger more than enough to let him grieve, even if she struggled to comprehend why.
“I.. I understand, Kinger. He was your… er, creation.” Maybe son wasn’t exactly the right word. “You knew him far longer than any of us.” Pomni tilted her head as she noticed how tired the chesspiece looked. “Hey, maybe you should rest for now. You look like you need it. Maybe we can talk more later.” She really admired Kinger and enjoyed talking to him, but she wanted him to be in a better state of mind too. Kinger halfheartedly tittered. “You’re right,” he agreed. “We can talk later, Pomni. Stay safe, okay?” Kinger began shuffling away, the plush in hand. Pomni waved goodbye and watched quaintly as he retreated to his pillow fort.
An uncomfortable silence enveloped the surrounding area.
Pomni then felt something small bump against her leg. She glanced down and saw a small rubber ball. Raising an eyebrow, the jester bent down to pick it up, before feeling a sudden force of liquid slam into her back. She immediately jolted up, paint covered all over her back and head. She whipped around and saw Jax standing right behind her, holding an upside-down, empty bucket of paint with a shit-eating grin.
Before she could reply, she heard Ragatha scream “JAX!!! I TOLD YOU TO GIVE IT TO POMNI!”
Kinger sat inside of his pillow fort. He heard the faint voices of the other circus members.
“Whaaat? Calm down, Rags! I did give it to her!”
“I swear to God, can’t you take anything seriously?!”
Kinger snickered to himself as he removed the bucket from his head before lying down on his side, hugging the plush to his chest.
He felt so small in this fort. All alone.
So alone.
Just one. One king.
…a king of what?
..
Nothing. Nothing at all.
What a joke.
..
…
…Everything’s blurry now. Maybe because he’s falling asleep.
…
..
…
The shadows in the darkness begin to dance and fly. Uh oh, here come the half-asleep thoughts.
…
..
He feels empty. Yet empty shouldn’t be painful. What does he feel? What has he truly felt ever since he lost her? Did he ever get over it?
Yes!
…
No, no he didn’t. He just became a senile, crazy old man.
…
…
..
His face feels wet again. Wet wood? That's not good. He’ll get mold.
…
Mold. Rot. Decay.
Is that the fate of which awaits us all?
Is the afterlife all but decomposition?
Is that a bad fate? Your body will feed the insects.
…
Like bees. And butterflies. Butterflies feed on blood. Your blood.
.
Wait, no, you can’t rot here.
You just become nothing. Nothing at all.
Like Caine. Just like Caine. He’s nothing now.
..
…
……………
…Is nothing worse than rotting?
Kinger didn’t know the answer, he’d already drifted off to sleep.
Into the peaceful dreams of the past.
Goodnight!