Chapter Text
Good god, what have I gotten myself into.
Kinger stared at the colorful tapestry of pillows suspended above him, wishing that they might cave in and smother him to death. But there wouldn't be— couldn't be— any sweet release from the mortal coil of the Circus. Not even a minute of blessed nonexistence before respawn.
This was why he politely declined all of the long term ”solutions" that Pomni suggested for his "problem" with light. Kinger would have abstracted ten times over by now if it wasn't for his mind protecting itself with dissociative amnesia. Yes, it was a dysfunctional coping mechanism with a great many drawbacks due to its involuntary nature, but by goddid he cherish having a reliable escape from himself sometimes.
All he had to do was crawl out of his fort and surrender his thoughts to the harsh lighting and saturated primary colors of the Circus. Even the most haunting memories would burn up in seconds, ashes swept into his subconscious once more.
But everyone knew about the "clap on, clap off" nature of his lucidity by now, so it didn't make for an airtight alibi these days.
Is it selfish that I miss being the resident lunatic? It was so peaceful when no one expected anything from me besides wacky non-sequiturs.
Now that Kinger had been designated the wise village elder, people came to him for advice and moral support. This was the sort of misplaced trust that resulted in the Circus’s status as a gillnet for naïve programmers and curious wanderers. He had damned nineteen (and counting!) sentient beings to a virtual purgatory just by failing to account for basic ethical considerations. The fact that anyone still looked to him for guidance on anything was baffling.
When people put their faith in Kinger, they ended up disappointed, hurt, or both.
This tried-and-true prophecy was about to come to pass yet again, and Kinger could do nothing but lie in wait for the inevitable consequences of his latest act of stupidity.
So he sat back in his makeshift bed of cushions, thumbs twiddling in his lap as he waited, with nothing to do but consider all the mistakes he'd made in life that had led him here: the future final resting place of his. . . Shame? His principles? His moral code? Something along those lines.
Kinger couldn't imagine a more fitting tomb than this godforsaken pillow fort.
He wished he had a reliable way of telling time. Caine had told him that he'd be there in precisely two hours and thirty-seven minutes, and Kinger had no doubt that he wouldn't miss their "appointment" by a single second. Punctuality was a great source of pride for him.
Punctuality. Pride. A positively persistent program. I can see Caine presenting 'P' as the "Letter of the Day". He'd have made a damn good Muppet in an alternate timeline. Free to indulge in wackiness to his heart’s content without being suffocated by the unending existential crisis of being a sapient AI in a prison of aging hardware.
Kinger had already run through scenarios of the most likely directions his encounter with Caine would take. None of the potential dialogue trees ended on a good note. The subject matter necessitated a delicate touch, but it was so difficult to get through to Caine without being blunt. And being blunt was nigh guaranteed to hurt his feelings, so Kinger was screwed either way.
Or, rather, Kinger had once again screwed over someone close to him.
I'm on a roll with the self-burns tonight, baby!
Following the peak of his contempt for himself right after Queenie's abstraction, Kinger had made significant progress moderating his bleaker thought processes. He tried to remind himself that wallowing in regrets didn't serve any purpose besides pushing him toward his own abstraction. Rather than working through his guilt, however, Kinger opted to avoid it.
But the current circumstances were causing a flare up that he couldn’t ignore. It was impossible to not blame himself when every aspect of the dilemma was his fault:
1.) Caine developed numerous issues with his psychological health as a result of his developers’ neglect and ignorance, which Kinger is responsible for as his co-creator. Realizing the extent of Caine’s neuroses after his crash out, Kinger starts spending more time with Caine to try and make it up to him.
2.) After being in his company more often, Kinger develops feelings for the AI he helped bring into existence. Rather than recognizing the inappropriate nature of these feelings and suppressing them, Kinger is compelled to tell Caine about his ridiculous crush.
3.) Caine's perfectionism and desperate need for approval, supported by his programming and intensified by his history, results in an obsession with crafting "The Ideal Romantic Experience!" for Kinger. He feels obligated to follow human traditions to a tee, which has culminated in—
A loud, distorted whirring sound jolted Kinger from his meandering melancholia.
Oh goddammit, here we go.
Kinger braced himself as a seam in the fabric of the paradoxical digital reality parted. All at once the pillow fort felt fit to burst, unable to contain the flailing limbs and teeth that spilled forth from the portal, organizing themselves into a bombastic pose within seconds.
"Kinger! My most marvelous monarch, are you ready for a night of 💘passionate💘 fornication, the likes of which humankind has never known?!"
"Shit, Caine, not so loud!"
"Right-o!" Caine opened a volume control pop-up and pushed the slider down a hair. “Better?”
“Thank you.”
"You don't have to worry your silly little wooden head about the others, though," he teased, patting the cross atop Kinger's head for emphasis, “Watch this!”
Caine snapped and. . . Nothing happened?
Kinger squinted, trying to see if there was something he was missing in the dim lighting. “Er. . . What did you do?”
“Isn’t it obvious? I soundproofed the fort, silly! Not a single peep is getting out of the now genuinely impenetrable Impenetrable Fortress!”
“Oh! That’s a good idea,” Kinger paused to think before continuing, “Is it possible to make it one-way, so we can still hear what’s going on outside? Just in case somebody needs one of us for an emergency or something.”
More like “so you can teleport out there before anyone notices we’re both missing and puts two and two together”.
“Ah ha, good thinking, you sly dog!” He snapped again.
Kinger felt guilty over treating his relationship with Caine like a scandalous secret, but he dreaded having to come up with a concrete description of their nebulous relationship and reiterating it to everyone else in the Circus. He’d considered how each of the members would react, and every single conversation was exhausting to navigate, even within the confines of his imagination.
He was sure at least one of them would grill him over the ethical dilemma of dating his own creation. Probably Zooble or Pomni, though the others might surprise him. Maybe they’d stage some sort of intervention and take turns berating him for being a unique breed of dirty old man.
I mean, I might just become the founder of AI Fuckers Anonymous tonight.
Considering Caine's preferred approach to answering difficult questions from the rest of the group was to escape in a panic, Kinger would likely be on his own. Caine had Kinger beat at his own game, a true master of evasion techniques.
It was a wonder they’d ever gotten together, after so many years of orbiting each other in concentric circles.
A heavy silence hanging in the air stirred Kinger from his thoughts. There was just enough light slipping through the spaces between individual cushions for Kinger to see the anxiety creeping over Caine's features. His eyes flicked between the walls, pupils contracting into tiny dots. It was the same expression that seized the AI every time he teleported into the pillow fort, yet he’d forgotten again.
“Oh geez, Caine, I forgot that— I’m so sorry, go ahead and make it as roomy as you need!”
Caine nodded, snapping his fingers and the cushy walls of the fort rushed away, leaving them with far more breathing room. He punctuated the effort with a series of exaggerated arm stretches, ridding himself of any remaining tension in his shoulders.
“That’ll do for now! But you really need a permanent upgrade to your living quarters. Every king needs a proper throne room! I know you aren't fond of your old one, but we could spiff up one of the default suites!”
“Hmm, maybe. . . I guess I’m just used to living like this after all these years. I must admit, I’m a creature of habit.”
“It’s just so—!” Caine glowered at the barren interior, stripped of its coziness—its only real “feature”— by the increased negative space, “. . . Pathetic. . .”
Kinger shrugged. “Eh. It works for me.”
“Suit yourself! Anyways, on to business! Risque business,” he purred, attempting his best approximation of an eyebrow waggle.
Goddammit, I should’ve taken him up on the home improvement offer.
Caine drifted to the ground, settling next to Kinger with his legs crossed. The way Caine looked up at him, with his head craned upward at a sharp angle and his eyes bright with excitement, made Kinger's chest feel tight. He wasn't sure if it was a symptom of guilt or adoration. Probably both.
Caine pulled out his notepad and held it up for Kinger to see his work. He flipped through it with such a frantic energy that Kinger couldn't actually absorb all the calculations and illustrations, but what he could make out gave him the chills. Not the good kind, but the sort of cold sweats one gets when they're in the middle of a high fever.
"I've done all the necessary preparations; I just need your feedback before I implement a few temporary modifiers! Unfortunately, I have no visual references of human, ah, g-genitalia—” he flinched as a minor glitch passed through him, "—in my database. But I consulted with a seasoned expert on these matters and she was able to provide some concept art I could work with!"
Caine swapped his lined notepad with a larger sketchbook, shoving the drawings close to Kinger's face. He drew backwards and squinted in order to make sense of them, frowning when he realized what he was looking at.
". . .Is this one of Gangle's sketchbooks?” he squinted at Caine, “You didn't steal this, did you?”
Caine retreated, pulling the drawings close to his chest as cartoonish sweat drops appeared on his upper jaw. "N-no, of course not! I just made myself a copy, the original never even left Gangle’s room. You know I'd never take something so precious from one of my guests, my dear!”
"But did you ask her if—"
"Whatshedoesn'tknowwon'thurther!!!"
Kinger considered sticking his head outside into the harsh light of the Circus for a moment to escape culpability in this invasion of Gangle's privacy. But no, he brought this upon himself and he deserved to suffer every millisecond of secondhand embarrassment.
Caine shoved the sketchbook back into his hammerspace. "H-ha ha, anyhoo, after tapping into the exquisite imagination of our resident artiste, I was able to use my incomparable modeling abilities to create these!"
A finger snap echoed through the room and Kinger felt his non-existent heart leap to his non-existent throat.
Oh. That's. . . Oooh no.
Kinger stared at the array of reproductive organs that Caine had conjured, rotating midair like some sort of surreal character select screen. Some were based on actual human anatomy, albeit exaggerated, while some were more, well. . . Fantastical.
Wait, why does that one have a canid kn—
Caine beamed at his grotesquerie, too full of pride in his rendering work to leave any room for shame. "I didn't realize humans could have such a wide variety of doodads! Anatomical descriptions in the encyclopedia entries I scanned through only mentioned two main structures, with some variations as a result of differences in sex development."
"Yeah. . . Well, some of these are, y’know, fictional designs," Kinger finally willed himself to approach the display, swiping through the carousel of genitalia and pointing out the most vanilla options, "Uh, these phalluses and vaginas you have here are the, er, standard issue models, eh heh."
"Ah, that's a shame, I quite liked some of the other ones. Look at this one, it's so wiggly and. . . Squiggly! Very fun!" Caine giggled, before catching himself, "N-not that the actual human anatomy is unappealing or anything! Very impressive structures. I appreciate how the penetrative organ has a sort of sleep mode so it can be tucked away when not in use. And the receiving orifice creates its own lubricant, ingenious! Imagine if they could engineer something like that in the automotive industry. . ."
It took every ounce of self-control in Kinger's makeup to not get sidetracked by the concept of a self-oiling car maintained by state-of-the-art pussy technology, but he persevered for Caine's sake.
He turned his focus back to the fruits of Caine's labors, trying to set aside his skittishness in order to forge ahead. The array of models was an impressive effort, all things considered, but. . . Each and every one of them felt like a strange, off-putting doppelganger. It was reminiscent of the ghastliest taxidermy of the Victorian era, created by individuals that had never actually seen the living creatures they were attempting to recreate.
Kinger shuddered at the thought of how awkward they'd be in motion. There was a nonzero chance that he could've figured out how to make at least one of the penises ejaculate properly, but, knowing Caine, it was much more likely they'd go off like party poppers. Complete with confetti and glitter.
Bracing himself, he dared a quick glance down at Caine. He was looking up at him with wide eyed anticipation, pupils twinkling with literal stars as he eagerly awaited Kinger’s feedback.
I am so screwed.
"I can tell you've put a lot of hard work into these, they're truly, ah. . . Something else! But you don't have to mess around with our avatars or anything like that, we can work with what we already have."
Caine grimaced. "A-are you sure? I mean, I don't have anything to work with, really," Caine pushed the sleeve of his tailcoat up to his elbow, revealing nothing but thin air, "And it seems strange to indulge in the carnal desires of the flesh without any, uh. . . Flesh!"
Kinger shook his head, a gentle smile pulling at the corner of his eyelids. "You don't have to tack on any extra bits and pieces for my sake. I think you're perfectly lovely just as you are."
Caine's eyes ventured a bit further past his teeth, his pupils even more star-studded than before and dilated enough to look like windows to the night sky. "G-golly, you really mean that?"
"Absolutely."
Caine clamped his reddening jaws shut for a moment to regain his composure, before launching upwards into a cocksure pose. "O-of course you do! Ha ha! Why mess with perfection?" He snapped his fingers and the vulgar menagerie of privates vanished.
Oh thank god.
Caine snatched his cane out of the air in order to fiddle with the head. "Such a shame that I wasted so many valuable hours modeling and rigging those attachments, though. . ."
"Well, some other members of the crew might want to give them a go! Though, I'd, uh, definitely get some feedback from them before you finalized the designs."
Caine stuck his tongue out in disgust, eyes lolling forward on top of it. "Ugh! But then I'd have to worry about running into the beast with two backs all the time. You humans can be so perv—” Caine stopped himself, "Uh, pervicacious. They certainly do keep asking about it, I mean!"
Kinger scratched the back of his neck as he tried to think of the best way to get through to the AI. "It's an important part of life for a lot of humans, Caine. It's hard to come to terms with the loss of an integral element of yourself, especially when it's such a sudden, clean cut. Imagine if you woke up one day without something that makes you, y’know. . . You!”
“Like. . . MY CANE?” he clutched it to his chest as though Kinger was actually threatening to snatch something from his avatar.
The double entendres write themselves!
Kinger playfully rolled his eyes. “Yeah, sure, let’s go with that. Imagine losing your cane and being unable to get it back!”
Caine clicked his tongue, thoughtfully stroking the shaft of his ca-
Alright already, we get it!
". . .I just worry that adding lewd content for the general population would be like opening Pandora's box. What's stopping the Circus from turning into a free-for-all?"
Kinger couldn’t help but laugh at the sincerity of Caine’s concern. "Do you think they're going to turn the tent into a non-stop orgy or something?
"No! . . . I think?" Caine's eyes became unfocused for a moment, before awareness slammed back into him with an anxious furor, "There aren't any references to the term 'orgy' in my database, is that something else I should be worried about?!"
"I'm just teasing, relax! Anyways, if something goes off the rails, you can add safeguards as needed.”
Caine folded his arms over his chest, considering his options. His demeanor degraded into sulking within a minute. Whatever train of thought he'd taken clearly made a few stops in unpleasant parts of his psyche.
"If the others want sex so bad, they can figure out how to add it themselves," Caine folded his arms across his chest, his posture folding in on itself as his tone grew sullen, "It's not like I have any control over what they do anymore. They don't even want my input half the time."
Kinger took one of Caine’s hands into his own. “They’re still wary of you after everything that happened, but can you blame them?” Kinger felt Caine’s fingers curl slightly in his palm as he turned his eyes to the ground, “That doesn’t mean they don’t want your help. I mean, you've created entire worlds full of elaborate set dressings and robust populations of NPCs. The others are still struggling to conjure things like silverware and blankets, Caine!"
"If you say so. . ."
“And if you ever need to implement any updates that you’re not quite sure about, I’m always here to help. I know change can be uncomfortable for you, but we can just take it one step at a time!”
Caine’s features brightened at the suggestion for a future friendly collaboration. “O-okay! Yeah!” he pulled Kinger up by his hand until he was standing, “And the first step is playtesting “A Steamy Night of Passion”, right here, right now, with yours truly~💕"
For Christ’s sake. . . Right back where we started.
That was it. Kinger had gone through every stalling tactic in his playbook. Sometimes Caine reminded Kinger of a dog that conveniently forgot the “drop it” command when he’d gotten ahold of something he shouldn’t.
“Uh, well, If you insist!”
Though, can the dog be blamed for not listening if the people around him never actually say what they mean?
Caine flopped on the bed of cushions in front of Kinger and cycled through several suggestive poses, seeming to assess the “sexiness” of each one before muttering to himself in dissatisfaction and trying out another. He opted for lying back against the bed of cushions, one hand under his chin and legs splayed outwards in a comically whorish display.
"Go on, Kinger-boy, ravish me."
He attempted his best "come hither" look, eyes hooded by his upper jaw, but Kinger could see the way his mandible quivered underneath the mock sultriness. Caine's entire form seemed just a bit too tightly strung, though any oddities could be blamed on poor acting due to his lack of experience playing the part.
Caine's most reliable tells were technical difficulties with his avatar. Once he noticed the patterns behind the appearance of specific glitches in certain contexts, Kinger could read Caine like a well-labeled diagram.
At the moment, there was a subtle chromatic aberration blurring the edges of Caine’s model. A persistent spasm in his hands and arms. Textures flickering on the lapels of his tailcoat. Numerous artifacts surrounding his pupils.
It was all Kinger needed to see. The all-powerful ringmaster was out of his depth.
And he sure as Hell couldn’t swim.
Oh no. Oh nonononono-
"We are not doing this."
“Huh?!”