Work Text:
Pacifer
—
She'd known about Scratch.
She'd known about Scratch the whole time.
It wasn't the first time her husband had cheated on her, and she had accepted it wouldn't be the last.
(There was the incident when they were still in college, the roommate he swore he just got too close to; at least two more after the wedding, but by then she'd had their daughter, and the logistics of leaving were overwhelming.)
Still, it hadn't made things easier when they woke up here in this digital cartoon hellscape and the tragic dying programmer he’d been fucking (so fine, okay, whatever, I guess) was the asshole in the permanent fursuit.
It also hadn't helped when Scratch had grabbed her arm as she was backing Caine into the corner, demanding to go back to their daughter, and condescendingly reminded her that they were copies, there was someone at home with the girl; her. And his tone, his condescending bigoted little tone, got him punched in the face.
It also hadn't helped when her husband pried them apart, and asked if Scratch was okay first.
And Scratch’s fucking broken AI just staring at them. Licking the back of his fucking eyeballs like a lizard and forgetting to make facial expressions. When he caught her staring, he tucked his tongue and stared back.
She didn't like it.
—
No one had liked it when Caine killed Scratch.
It wasn't that it wasn't necessary (his glitching blackness had overtaken half the game map) and it wasn't that they hadn't known, intellectually, that Caine had the power to create and destroy. It was more that he'd just been floating there, not helping defend anyone while Kinger backed her into the middle of the group, shaking but protecting her, then abruptly it had all been reverted. Scratch, or the black ruin that had been him, was gone; the circus was returned, everything was fine.
It took them several minutes to realize that Caine, without moving or saying a word, had simply deleted Scratch's program files.
Knowledge of functional omnipotence and proof were different things, and the room fell silent when Caine's avatar approached. The AI had stared at them. They had stared back. And then Wormo had begun to cry, starting to panic, and the others had clustered to calm him, casting wary looks at Caine, who had started to lick the back of his eyes absently, like a dog chewing his nails.
—
“Why did he make that sound.” Caine asked blankly.
“Wormo? You mean when he was crying?”
“Why does he keep doing that.” Caine said blankly.
“...well, because he was sad. Humans feel sad sometimes. And scared. And what happened with Scratch was scary.”
“What does he want me to do about it.”
“It's mostly for the other people. It just lets us know he's not okay. So we can help.” Kinger's voice explained carefully.
They were sitting together in the grass, heads tilted up like they were watching the stars.
Caine turned to look at Kinger consideringly, then without precursor he raised his hands as claws up to his face and let out a long wail, startling Kinger as he began pulling on his teeth. He leapt up as Caine threw himself backwards on the grass, screaming and tearing at himself, starting to bawl hysterically (was he sampling Wormo??? It sounded wrong, like someone had sampled six different crying people and stapled the sounds together).
“Wait! Wait, stop!” Kinger hissed, bending to grab for Caine's wrists to get his hands away from his teeth. Caine wailed and struggled under him, and Kinger pinned him under his weight and grabbed his jaws in his arms, muffling him. “Dont do that! Shh! You're gonna wake someone up!”
(Someone.)
Caine went silent and still immediately. After a moment Kinger took his weight off, allowing Caine to sit up again blankly.
“Don't do that.” Kinger whispered. “That's only something people do when they're sad or hurt. You'll scare people if you do that.”
Caine stared. “I don't want people to be scared of me.” He said blankly.
Kinger sat back down next to him. “Maybe we should teach you to smile.”
—
He was like a child. Manipulative and cruel as only a child could be.
“Good morning, my blossoming begonias!”
Ugh, it was better before he learned to lie. Better before he made a cartoon of himself and they just had to guess what horror was running behind those eyes. Or maybe the thing didn't really think at all. Maybe it just strove to survive. Maybe Kinger was it's advantage.
She hated the way Kinger gave it hand signals when it ran them through these horrible scenarios. How he tittered at horrible jokes he'd clearly fed the thing himself. She'd never been as sociable as her husband. He thought he was awkward but the way he lit up when he talked earned him more friends than he knew. She'd learned to play the game in academia but when push came to shove he was always the one talking them out of trouble while she fumed and stammered, clever only after the fact. She hated that this still hurt.
She knew. She knew now because he was still getting out of bed in the middle of the night, disappearing out into the dark of the circus grounds, and when she followed she could hear them. Sometimes it sounded like Kinger explaining things to their daughter's, and those times made her think herself paranoid. But then she'd seen Caine had crawled his way into her husband's lap, wrapped around him like a child, head over his shoulder. Eyes as blank as the void, staring directly at Queenie in her hiding spot.
—
Caine hadn't left his avatar. Despite the fact everyone had scattered the ringmaster was still standing in the circus hall, looking busy polishing the head of his cane. (The cane was better than the eyeball licking, but the way he played with the brass knob made it unclear if he was being obscene or threatening, or both.). Queenie was the only person there.
“What do you want with my husband?” She asked blankly, when Caine darted forward to try to talk.
The AI stared at her, then lit up. “Kinger? He's teaching me how to act like a real person!” He chirped. The excited happy tone, the lit up eyes, the bubbly posturing; he sounded hopelessly in love. He sounded like their youngest (he sounded like Queenie, but how could she ever recognize her own mannerisms sampled back at her? Her own helpless state?) The uncanniness of it made her gut drop with a low feeling of dread.
“But you're not a real person.” She recited back blankly, her own feelings reducing her limited expressions worse than Caine.
The AI went wide eyed, shoulders dropping like he'd let out air he couldn't have inhaled. “I’m– I'm a person–”
“--you’re a tool.” She said evenly. “A piece of computer script put together by a crazy man dying from a brain tumor. Do you understand? Scratch was broken. And you're even less than that.”
Caine stared.
At least he'd dropped his act of ‘having feelings’.
—
Caine didn't have to have his avatar in the room to be watching them. Queenie knew this, but it still came as a complete surprise when Caine followed her back to her room after the adventure. She was a little cool to her husband this week, no explanation forthcoming, and she knew the little red tyrant had to be here under her husband's manipulations. He had a foot and hand in the door like a salesman, preventing her from closing it as he humiliated them all in the hallway.
“I'll show you what I do for Kinger.” Caine said quickly, finally making her pause and stop trying to wretch the door away from him. She stared at him, heart pounding and gut cold.
“What do you do for my husband.” She said flatly.
Caine perked. “I'll show you. I'm good at it, you'll like it.” He volunteered happily, pushing forward now that she wasn't resisting. He closed the door behind himself and looked up at her like an eager dog, though Queenie had gone a bit distant.
“What do you do for my husband.” She repeated blankly.
The MC nudged her back towards the bed, and she sat with rigid blankness. Instead of climbing on top of her like she expected Caine dropped down at her foot, watching her as he touched the furred hem of her robe, and pushed it aside. Underneath was just the smooth wooden pillar of her digital body, but Caine reached his gloved hands to touch it, sliding them down the base (once it would have been her calves) and bending close to nuzzle and kiss the wood.
What he did for Kinger. She hated how he seemed genuine, how he looked up at her like she mattered, how he was so desperate for validation even on his knees. Disgust rolled up her gut as he lovingly kissed her thigh and belly, unable not to picture them together (unable not to be sick in rage that she couldn't tell the difference between how her husband treated Caine as a child and a partner. Remembering him holding their daughter on the living room carpet. Sick that she couldn't disregard the thought.).
Caine gently pushed her down onto her back, sitting on the mattress by her hip and pushing the fur aside to expose more of the wood. If he'd had a tail it would be wagging. Queenie reached up and grabbed him by the collar, twisting it in her fist and sitting up. Ciane just stared, oblivious to what she telegraphed, and she had the smallest flicker of sympathy for him as she punched him right in the upper lateral incisor. She felt it loosen under her blow and Caine reeled, expression confusion and uncomprehending hurt. She hit him again, and the tooth sat crooked in his jaw, snapped at the base and bleeding some digital static into his mouth, which just drained away onto his jacket. Caine hadn't put his hands up to defend himself, staring at her and starting to lick the back of his eye, disgusting and lizard like, but that stopped when he saw she stared at it, trembling instead.
“Did that help?” He asked shakily.
Queenie nodded.
Caine lifted a hand to his jaw, cradling the injured tooth. “Okay.” He said shakily, then smiled broadly, snapping his fingers and repairing his damaged jaw. “Anything I can do to make you happy, Queenie.”
“Stop ****ing my husband.” She snapped.
The lizard stare. After a moment of terrible awkward ess Caine snapped his fingers again and disappeared.
—
“I just want her to like me.” Caine mumbled, head folded under his arms and ‘chin’ on his knees, sulking in the dark of the beachfront. Kinger, guilty, looked down at his hands and back out at the water.
—
Asleep in her bed. Queenie felt the weight of her husband's body climbing carefully up beside her, laying down on the low.poly mattress and settling his detached hand on her waist. His wooden body settled against her back, and she felt him slowly relax. She felt the drop as his body stopped moving, and his breathing fell to the back of his throat, starting the low, quiet snore she didn't think she could go without hearing.
In the dark, Queenie began to cry.
—
The fucking AI didn't take a hint. Even one as blatant as a broken tooth. He showed up at her room again, and in a dark corner of her mind she wondered where her husband was as she bitterly let the man in. Her competitor fell to his knees, looking up at her with an ugly innocent look she couldn't tolerate, not when their little girl had looked up at them the same way.
She knocked the smile off his face. Tongue bit, teeth loose, Caine picked up his scattered eyes by hand,.giving her the satisfaction of watching him struggle. He shoved the eyes grotesquely back into his mouth and looked up at her. “Is that enough?” He asked shakily.
And he did it again the next day.
And he did it again the next day.
“What's my husband doing?” She asked breathlessly on the third day, holding his thin collar. “Right now.”
Caine lifted his head, having gone limp a few blows ago. Without the eyes in his head he was harder to read, but he didn't answer a long moment.
“Oh God.” She said thickly, dropping him. He played limp a moment before slowly sitting up. “Who?” She demanded.
Caine didn't answer a long moment, possibly torn in loyalties. She could see the back of his tongue muscle working in the open throat and realized he was licking his bloodied eyes behind his teeth. The revulsion only added to the pain.
“Caine!” She shouted. “Administrative order! Who is Kinger with right now?”
Invalid entry. Caine sat there behind his closed teeth. Their administrator override codes were tied to their original names, and no one, especially scratch, had bought Caine's story about their names being broken data in the transfers. It was too convenient.
(Administrator Override ***** data request player location Kinger)
(Invalid administrator ID)
Caine slowly cracked that clamshell of a head, peeking out at her with those mismatched eyes.
(Why does he get a body? She could understand Caine, she supposed. Despite the typodont head he had anatomy, pectorals and legs and broad shoulders– and she had–. She had–)
“Caine!” She demanded, voice raising and towering over him. “Who is he with??”
His jaw closed down to hide his eyes again. “Dino.” He mumbled.
An ugly interim of time passed as she stared down at him. Then, carefully, like she could have misheard him. “Dino.” She repeated.
Caine nodded, closing his jaw and raising a shaking hand up over his head. Instead of the expected outburst, Queenie seemed to deflate, moving slowly to sit on the edge of the bed. She didn't notice as Caine crawled the short distance over to her foot, putting his hands on the floor like a supplicant and pressing his head to her knee like a dog. Her gut rolled as she felt him trembling there.
“Did he order you to come to my room?” She asked thickly.
Caine shrank, and didn't answer. It was enough. She put her head in her hands.
“Get out.” She mumbled.
Caine's eye peeked grotesquely out the back of his head. “Are you mad at me?” He asked pathetically.
(Like a child.)
She felt sick. Queenie shoved him away, and Caine fell back on his rump, trembling there until she stomped her foot at him, making him scatter like an animal.
—
Dino froze, staring over Kinger's shoulder as the AI Scratch had programmed hovered silently in the air, wringing his gloves and jaw clamped over his eyes. Kinger paused in his story and turned, frowning as he saw Caine.
“What is it? Are you alright?” He asked, a little stern, but parental.
Caine pushed right into the middle of them, clinging to Kinger's waist and shoving his head into his chest, shaking and making an ugly little animal whine. Dino stood up from his own bed, casting a wary glance. “Im…gonna go look for Wormo.” He muttered, heading for the door.
Frustrated, Kinger looked down at his armful of trembling AI, scowled, then softened his expression and began to slowly pet his back. Caine slowly relaxed against him.
—
In the dark in her room, Queenie listened as her husband slipped inside, carefully closing the door behind him. She lay still as he climbed onto her bed, putting his hand on her waist and burying his face against her neck.
She couldn't sleep.
—
“You can have Caine.” Queenie said firmly, voice low, and Kinger paused, still sitting on the edge of the bed. He turned to look at her, like he'd misheard.
“What was that, dear?” He asked nervously.
“Caine.” She repeated, back to him. “If you're going to **** around, you can have the AI. But I can't…I can't deal with this anymore. I can't deal with… Dino. Scratch was enough.”
He stared at her. When he didn't respond she buried her head in the pillow, and after a long moment she felt him stand and quietly go to the door, leaving her alone.
—
She watched, as her husband murmured quietly to the AI. It hovered next to him, eyes going slowly wider, and Queenies only narrowed, arms crossed over her chest. No one else really noticed. But he showed up that night, Queenie laying rigidly in her husband's arms, both jumping slightly at the knock on the door. Why did it even bother to knock?
Kinger cleared his throat. “Come in.” He announced, and Queenie sat up off him, gut a black pit as she watched the AI flit through the door. She reflexively scooted a little ways away, and Kinger patted the bed between them (where their daughter had used to sleep when she had nightmares–) and the AI went to it as eagerly as a dog, sliding between them and all but wiggling. Eager to please. Desperate. (Pathetic.)
(Did she look at him that way? Did she follow him like the only man on earth? Did she wait on him like a dog?)
Kinger took a soft expression and propped himself up on his elbow, putting an arm over Caine's waist and tugging him against his chest. She stared, and the clamshell head closed, going still and starting to tremble, hiding against his chest.
(A child with a nightmare–)
Queenie huffed, pushing the thoughts away, and Kinger offered her a small smile. The kind that used to make her stomach flip. Right now it just made it squirm. He reached over and took her hand, squeezing it before laying it on top of Caine’s head. The AI trembled violently as he showed her to pet like a cat, putting her hand on the places Caine liked, and slowly the AI melted in relief, starting to press into her fingers.
Kinger was the one who took Caine's eyes out, and Queenie had to admit, it made things easier. Her husband put them in the bedside drawer, and without the puppy dog stare he gave the AI lost that trembling power, that innocent air that made her keep thinking of THEIR GODDAMNED DAUGHTER. Just a body. Just teeth. Kinger let.his.hand wander down the jaw to the chest and collar, palm finely spreading to feel the oddly human musculature of Caine and only Caine. She watched the AI hitch and fidget, but stayed where he was, jaw clenched.
Offering her a small smile again, he took her hand and guided it to Caine's chest this time, and she saw the AI tighten his fists around the sheets, not touching her. She let her hand cautiously wander, and the ais reactions were hideously touch starved, trembling and arching to her touch, needy.
“Please.” Caine whined prettily, almost like he'd been trained to do it.
Curious, lightly.flushed, Queenie brought her hand up to those massive teeth, touching the edge of his incisors. His jaw fell open immediately, puffing quietly over his tongue and teeth, and she cautiously traced the anatomy of his molars. The jaw didn't close to bite her, despite the appearance of a massive bear trap, but the tongue semi autonomously found her hand and licked the palm. She recoiled slightly, then put it back, frowning as he obediently licked her fingers like a dog.
“Good boy.” She heard her husband murmur.
—
He really was nothing, wasn't he. No boogey man, no tyrant god. Just a pathetic little digital puppy. She couldn't even confidently claim him sentient, watching the MC joke and try to provoke a reaction out of his increasingly frayed audience. Since Scratch abstracted his games had been getting more intense, and she didn't know what to make of it. The others gave him wary looks as they left the portal.
That night, unsummoned, Caine knocked on the door of Wormo's room. The programmer hadn't ever quite adapted to having no limbs, feeling like the Caterpillar Man, but without the lip dexterity. He half sat up in his bed, frowning nervously at the door.
“Yes?”
Then the MC was in his room. He stared. Caine was sitting on the floor by the side of the bed, like a toad or a dog. “What.” he demanded nervously, as the AI reached in it’s own jaw and pulled its eyes free, shoving them into his jacket pocket. The jaw hinged open and Wormo gave a cry of terror and revulsion as Scratch’s weird little pet crawled towards him, lolling his tongue out and licking up the fur of Wormo’s back. Wormo squirmed and tried to scoot away, but Caine very easily grabbed the thin body underneath the fur and held it, licking up the man's fur and helpless torso as the programmer cried out and shivered, panicking as he couldn't thrash his way off the bed.
Wormo was quiet the next day. Caine was not. Wormo didn't handle the adventure well, becoming trapped in a maze he didn't have the hands to manipulate the puzzle lock of.
And Scratch was not unique. By the end of the week, oozing black and eyes had begun to crawl up Wormo's back, and the other players had to watch as Caine, this time grinning broadly and confident, played pretend.
“Whoopsie daisy! It looks like we've got another Abstraction on our hands.” Caine announced, using his power to seize Wormo's writhing mass from the floor of the circus, where Kinger was already protectively between his coworker and his wife, the only one who didn't splinter off and run. As Wormo's writhing body rose up towards the ceiling, Caine turned to look at them. “Well for the safety of everyone, I better put Wormo somewhere he can't hurt himself! Or you! Oh, I know, how about the cellar?”
There was no cellar. What there was was an enormous asset storage area under the main circus tent, which everyone knew. The hole Caine opened in the floor certainly didn't go into the storage. It went to nothing. Caine lowered the writhing black worm into it, and sealed the floor.
(Wormo.player has been deleted)
Dusting off his hands, grinning, Caine twirled his little cane and struck a pose. “There! All safe and sound! Nothing bad can happen to our friend in the basement, I'll take very good care of them.”. He grinned, looking over their terrorized faces. “Is anyone hungry?”
—
A bad dream.
A bad dream mocking her.
A bad dream of teeth and need that had eaten the place where their daughter should be and wormed his way in like a parasite. Distorting the idea. Ruining them both.
A cuckoo.
A monster.
Caine.
This was the first night alone, the first night since the last of the other programmers had abstracted. It just left her, her husband, and the beast of need that hovered with them like a curse, unwilling to fuck off to whatever void he inhabited when he wasn't right in their way. Like an insecure child, demanding attention and consolation.
Hell.
This was no bad dream, this was hell.
Kinger had gone quiet, glassy compared to before, petting him only when he demanded, pushing his head under Kinger's fingers like a cat. She'd watched as her husband, depersonalized, had let Caine crawl into his lap and push his robe open, licking him like a nervous dog.
Hell.
(Like a child.)
The idea had haunted her for nearly two years now. Their daughter, laid between them; their daughter, sitting on her father's lap; their daughter, sweet and cuddling and just a little precocious, getting a talk from the principal once because he was concerned shed been playing doctor with a boy on the playground.
(What if it wasnt just the boys)
Crying in his arms at night, having chased off a sulking ai, she said it.
“Promise me.” She hitched, eyes red from crying. “Promise me you never touched our daughter. It was just the boys. Just the boys right?”
The horrible pause, like before a dying breath.
“...you think I did anything do our daughter?” He asked quietly. A pause. She could hear her heart in her ears, felt the slow intake of breath in his chest.
(Oh God.)
“...h-how could you think something like that?” He demanded shakily, anger tinging his voice. “How could you think that I'd… with my own daughter–”
The bottom fell out of Queenie's world.
(Alone. In hell.)