Archive of Our Own

The first thing you register is the buzz of fluorescent lights, followed by the sound of gears and mechanical churning, with the faint gargle of viscous liquid that you can’t yet recognise without seeing it.

Once you open your eyes, almost immediately after processing your consciousness, you are met with the sight of concrete floors, well-lit halls, and machines you aren’t very familiar with surrounding you. The ground is smooth beneath your soles, the area around you a large expanse that feels much too big to be fitted for your size.

As you try to will the glow coming from your eyes away to see more clearly, and your hand finds nothing but wispy hair, you are aware of three things:

• You are Soulvester Willowwisp.

• You are the main toon of the Halloween event.

• You have been made alongside your sister, Boolynski. She inherits a last name from you by technicality, but is not a main toon.

You scan the area. One of your creators stands before you, looking over you up and down as though evaluating you. The other, standing behind her by an ichor extractor, is grinning ear to ear. A few more things come to you:

• You are the primary source of activity from a manor.

• You have taken the role of host of the residence, the toons under you serving as your guests.

• The one standing before you is Delilah, the one behind her Arthur. They are your creators.

• You serve Gardenview above all else. It is your territory, your right.

You open your mouth to speak, and notice the way it tugs slightly, the way your lips are not separated by one smooth line. Your name— your inspiration was a will-o-wisp, so your mouth is fashioned after a furnace. It won’t affect how you eat, thankfully. You can just make the ‘bars’ incorporeal.

They must have given you your suit before you awoke; you can feel your ghostly form beneath the fabric, the inflexibility that usually comes with formal wear. You then remember they most likely made you with this form.

You’re fully donned from head to toe despite your sister’s lacklustre attire, as though you’re attending a black tie wedding, most likely for your status. Still, you have legs instead of a trail of phantasmic smoulders (your tailcoats take the place of this whenever is the case), wearing dress pants and shoes. You can change this at will.

“Are you the hosts?” You scan them, judging their reactions. Delilah notes something to herself at the question, seemingly pleased. Arthur seems impressed, somewhat stunned, smiling with raised eyebrows. 

“Well, this is a strong start! No, I wouldn’t say that. Dandy’s the host, you could say. We’re like the staff of the house, the ones you seek council from and run the place!” Arthur’s grinning, a toothy one. It’s genuine elation, though a bit more like that of a showman’s more than of any childish glee. Still, any approval is approval you’ll accept.

“It’s as strong as things need to be.” Delilah corrects, before turning back to you. “We’re the directors of Gardenview. I’m the head, Arthur here is administrative control. You come to us for orders, go to Dandy for a figurehead.” Her collar goes up to her chin, and she’s taking notes on a clipboard. You think she was doing so when you first woke up, too.

Dandy... Ah, the main toon of main toons, the host of the gathering. If the main toons are co-hosts or hostesses, he alone is the host. The mascot, the face, the first of them. The one he serves on behalf of Gardenview, where the directors are the voice of it.

“I see,” you reply. “Then for your generosity,” you bow, “I will be a proper guest to Gardenview, to Dancifer, and you both by extension.” You bow your head, expecting your hair to fall over your eyes, and are met with nothing at all. It’s been tied up neatly. “And swear to keep the venue as I entered it and safe.”

Silence. Anticipatory is the silence that follows your words, before a graciously given answer. 

“That’ll do.” Delilah states, a firm yet approving response. Good.

Then, she turns back to the other staff, continuing. “We need to get back to work people, get to it!” she orders, clapping her hands together. A peaceful sort of calm settles on your shoulders.

Productivity will serve the gathering well. You have a feeling you’re in good hands— that both of you are in good hands.

.

You’re meeting your twin sister for the first time. It’s an unusual feeling, finally meeting your sister in person when you feel like you’ve known her your entire life. You’d liken it to spending an eternity away from her, but you’ve never been together.

Boolynski is... ah, mischievous, to put it lightly. Flighty, always going off to who-knows-where, always vying for the attention of others. A poltergeist, knocking things over for pranks and lighthearted fun. It makes sense, he thinks.

It feels a bit strange to have such sentimental memories that he can justify with trivia about their artificial creation process. He leaned towards it immediately for himself, but it’s difficult to apply to another toon. Is there another word for it? Unusual. This entire experience is unusual.

Arthur’s keeping you company while you wait. It appears since Boolynski’s fond of moving around anyway, and you’re the main toon, she’s been allocated to visit you. Beyond that, it takes you two more effort to move than the average toon, with your unique backgrounds.

Nonetheless, by your request, your sword dutifully sits by your side. It’s meant to sit on a mantle on a wall, placed over an armchair that happens to be where you should be primarily stationed. You of all toons are well aware of what can be installed in a venue, so this had to have been intentional.

The reason for the sword is simple. Your manor is yours— intruders are unwelcome, and it is the host’s duty to escort out unwanted guests. You are a will-o-wisp haunting a place of residence. It is characteristic of certain ghosts to grow territorial or hostile when unknown entities step foot into their domains.

You huff, and warm air caresses your skin. You find you’re like a furnace in more ways than appearances, and the fact means nothing to you despite that. 

You’ve been informed of your duties and given time to acclimate to Gardenview. You have seized the right to this corner of the lands, and taken in carefully selected toons for the occasion. This cast of toons are guests (invited before or during their arrival to the venue depending on their characters) that come around every season. 

Boolynski is the rogue, a poltergeist often running off to do things on her own and interrupting the agenda. Making a ruckus, being overly casual for the setting, everything guests cannot be. Except she is a hostess, as your twin sister and one of the first to claim residence. She is loyal at heart, that was meant to be part of her development over time. Eventually, she would find a balance between her heart’s desires and how to work with people.

How cliché.

Your sister is a subversion. All of you are subversions, actually. She is a ghost that is meant to come across as noisy, self-centred, and ill-intentioned; especially with how inconvenient she is. Then, the audience peers into her, and finds a more loyal ally than even she anticipated, that her tampering and stunts are all in good nature. She’s the trickster of Halloween, the fact the holiday isn’t just about candies.

Your roster has a hard-headed skeleton too, temperamental and combative, Ribecca. She’s there to let children learn the joys of the season and how to help others with the festivities, no matter how outwardly terrifying she is. Her unorthodox choice of fashion for a children’s show is meant to support this as well, embodying the costumes of Halloween. She entered the establishment as a guest by your sister’s request, but has been promoted to co-hostess.

Gourdy, as a child toon, is meant to be a stand-in for the audience. Inspired by jack-o-lanterns, he’s meant to take the audience off-guard by making them think he’s wholly a trickster at first, then pull the rug out from under them when they see him without any tricks of the light. He’s the participant of festive cheer, trick-or-treating— he’s the living spirit of All Hallows’ Eve. He serves as your honorary staff member. All he does is ask for sweets as payment.

Then, there’s you. The feared leader behind the hauntings, eyes glinting like stars on a dark night, embers and scorched footprints left in your wake. You’re pragmatic, apathetic, merciless. Most active in the month of the day of the saints. On its eve, you come to life, sword drawn and ready to strike all who wander into your halls at the slightest intrusion. You cast a gaze that is nothing if not cold to anyone laying eyes on you, and lure in souls to scare. 

In reality, you’re a will-o-wisp that wanders to make a safe haven for toons much like yourself, giving them the chance to be more than what they learn on the streets.

It does not show on your face or in your eyes, but you do this for your sister. You stand in the dark to face it head-on; to illuminate branching paths with your flames, and hopefully fill the hole in her heart. You are listless, she is lost; this is your attempt at giving her something to do, give her an audience to scare and people to work with. You see nothing in the world that interests you outside the residence, she sees no direction or guiding light except your lure. Until the other toons join you, at least.

That’s how the story goes. Each of the toons under you are meant to come across as intimidating, only to have their hidden depths revealed.

You are still pragmatic, caring for little outside yourself and those within your walls. However, you care for etiquette, and while you won’t be compassionate for a stranger, you recognise impudence when you see it. You aid others done wrong upon not for them, but simply because it is what must be done by your creed, your oath. Your duty as a host of a gathering, as the head of the house— to correct misbehaviour and reward dutiful guests and staff.

The door creaks. Ah, how long have you been lost in thought? Arthur must have had little difficulty with you, stuck in your head like that. You cast your gaze to the source of the sound. It’s just Delilah.

“Any minute now...” She looks over at a wall. Ah, you remember- no, not quite- you know this song and dance by now.

“Guess who~” Even though there are only two ghost toons in the entire building, and one that pulls stunts like these, the answer is apparent.

“Greetings to you too, sister.” Your tone is deadpan, and you hold back the urge to roll your eyes, looking at her from where she’s phased into the room from so she doesn’t steal your sword from under you. 

Boolynski chooses to roll her eyes, spinning in a circle in the air. “You’re no fun,” she sticks her tongue out, hanging upside down in front of you. You meet her eyes. The directors are still in the room, all things considered, but neither of you seem to mind- or care for- the soft scratching of graphite against paper. 

You glare at her, and she glares back, before-

“Pfft-” your sister snickers, before bursting into full-blown laughter, and you’re laughing with her. Why you’re laughing, you couldn’t possibly understand, but she was always the only one who could make you.

You playfully swing your fist at her, even if it phases right through, and she’s almost doubled over. “Shut up,” your words are pointed, though made lighter when belied with the absolutely gleeful tone you’re speaking with.

It’s just like before, whatever before is. You could get used to this.

.

You have several duties as the main toon, and one of those is waiting. 

As the season’s toons are still a work-in-progress, all of them- including you- rarely meet each other in case any extreme changes are made. If toons were to grow used to each other, only for one of them to be altered, you could imagine it would be distressing. The head space will be maintained even if the changes are made, of course, but a single moment where the illusion is broken could cause complications. The toon would be aware of the change or dissonance, even if they would remain as they were altered to be.

When concepts of toons are made, existing toons gain memories in accordance. However, old memories cannot be forgotten, only overwritten. For as long as Gardenview is running, suspension of disbelief will allow toons to function seamlessly as though no change had occurred at all. Once it isn’t though, they’ll recognise the change in behaviour and how they hadn’t realised anything had changed.

You and your sister have been given a bit of an exception for physical meetings, partly due to your biological relations, partly because of her ability to phase through walls and haunt objects. You have the same abilities, but use them less often, so the staff and handlers aren’t too worried about you.

You have been informed of the main meetings. You know you will need to be well-acquainted with the other seasonal toons off-air, considering all of them are locked away with you from the main floor. 

It was Delilah’s decision, from what you’ve heard from Arthur, to have you as goal-oriented as you are. You don’t see any fault in it, you’ve stayed exactly as you were made, unlike how you’ve heard certain toons deviate as a natural non-scripted progression. Despite this, he seems concerned about you and how the audience will receive you. Isn’t the point to be scary? You can’t quite wrap your head around it.

Then again, you never quite cared if there was an audience or not, much less for the audience at all. Supporters of Gardenview they may be, they are not a part of Gardenview, so it is of no concern to you. Arthur has told you that as a Main Character, you were meant to care more for them and their sentiments towards you. Your lack of acknowledgement or understanding of them seems to worry him, even if just slightly. Delilah tells him that he’s focusing on the wrong parts of the matter, and that your “apathy” is not a flaw in design. Thus, he gives you some leeway.

To help you understand the needs of the audience better, he shows you drafts of a character scrapped early on in development. “Too many ideas in brainstorming”, they said. A werewolf, proactive and eager to help, made with the intent the rest of you were— to prove villains on the surface weren’t always as malicious as they appeared. You feel a pang of something, but don’t know what it is. 

Your expression remains stoic. He takes this that you see nothing of importance in the matter. You don’t, of course. This sort of thing does not concern you at all. 

You, as you are, have two states of being. In the mansion, you are the head, the main toon, the one responsible for your attendees. With the sword in your hands, you are Willowwisp, indomitable and fearless. As the primary ghost bound to the area, you are the strongest of your season, and will remain as such. Boolynski is merely here to entertain herself. Her power is not strengthened by will, not when she has no direction, no purpose. Not yet.

Without the sword, you are Soulvester. You have a sister to protect, and you put your duties to rest for just a moment. It’s a necessary, albeit unwanted, respite from all the errands you run. You seek the strength you have when you are more, and simultaneously know to fear that craving. There is a reason you swore off your sword unless absolutely necessary, after all.

You turn it around in your hands. You still remember how it feels to swing it, even though you know that’s never happened before. 

Without the sword, you are a toon that knows no better. Without the sword, you want. It is not an uncontrollable urge that controls you at its fancy, disguised as you, nor is it a flame in your heart that sparks when something happens that drives you into a frenzy. It is not a motive driven by some underlying sorrow. 

No, beneath it all, you are much like your sister. She is as discontent as you are. You get along because of how similar you are. Probably to make up for how differently you both present. The truth is this: she yearns for recognition, and you yearn for power. Only your wish has been granted.

Still, when that part of you can be detached at a whim, it feels lacklustre. It is not a part of you. It is not you, not yours. It is an accessory that can be stolen. Without the sword, you are all duty and no power.

Snap out of it. You tie back your hair, summon your feet from what is only flame. Pull yourself together. For now, you are the head of the manor. For now, you are the host of the Halloween toons. The only thing that the sword means to you is power. As long as you have your duties, you do not care if you are recognised as the main toon. You could be stripped of your name for all you care, and as long as you were the shadow-master, you would not care. 

The rest is semantics. The rest is ambiguous. It does not matter.

.

“You’re not very good at being the iconic main character of Halloween, are you?”

You come to your senses, craning your head over to the source of the voice.

“Mr. Timesly,” you address him first, still processing the abrupt conversation starter. “I’m the ghost of a haunted house. What about that is ill-fitting?”

The pocket-watch sighs, and you see the faintest crease in his brow. “You aren’t trying to appeal to the audience at all. You’re still a work in progress, you know.”

“My only interest is Gardenview, its toons, and its goals.” You’re nonplussed, turning to face him properly. “I see no need in appealing to them unless I’m told to. They’re children— it can’t be that difficult.”

“You wouldn’t even engage them if you had the choice,” he continues, and it perplexes you more. You wouldn’t, he’s right. Still, the furrow in his brow remains, and you are to engage and help a toon of Gardenview.

“That issue has already been remedied. Gourdy will be joining us as the last of my roster, and there will be another child toon with you all.”

“Don’t you want to keep the number of episodes you’ll be appearing in at a maximum?” He chides, and this- this confuses you.

“No, not at all. I only want to accomplish what Gardenview wants of me,” you can’t hide the bewilderment in your voice. “It wants me to appear for its audience, so I will.”

He stares at you with an expression you can’t wrap your head around no matter how you try. His eyes are wide, brows furrowed, like he’s disturbed. You’re not even trying to be morbid. Didn’t he just mention you weren’t good at being a Halloween toon?

“You’ll understand eventually.” It doesn’t seem like you’ve soothed him at all, and you feel a pinch of something. Pity, probably. He doesn’t need to be frustrated with you. “You’ll understand the meaning of what this is. I just hope it isn’t through losing it.”

If they demote you, they’ll choose Ribecca, you’re certain. There’s nothing to lose, so it doesn’t matter. Your sister is too mischievous and not made for leadership in the slightest, even if she would crave the spotlight from the role. Gourdy is- well, he’s a child. They wouldn’t.

You wonder if you’ll ever understand. You hope you will. You’ve grown tired of feeling next to nothing for most of your afterlife.

.

The directors have been arguing, as of late. They have been for a while, honestly.

He’s been made aware Boolynski and Ribecca have been allowed to see each other for the first time. Their personalities are allowed to be affirmed; they have been approved.

Despite their initial confidence in you though, they’re doubting themselves. You understand— the human mind is not absolute. Choices are bound to change. It is not the status itself you care about, only the strength. If you can keep your duties, keep your control, keep your power (your strength), that is enough.

Still, your concerns lie with time constraints. Though the deadline fast approaches for the season, the disputes have not ceased. Normally, one side would have backed down by now, you think. 

It is not that you are worried about yourself. If the other two have been approved, there is only one other viable option to fill your role, given the directors do decide to demote you from status.

Of all the toons to be a main toon, Gourdy was a choice you particularly disapproved of. Yes, his sister wasn’t quite the ideal choice, and Ribecca had quite a temper to adapt to. Even so, you firmly believed the latter had potential in this role and would take it seriously. With more gravitas than your sister, at the very least. The youngest of their cast... you struggled to see how this would turn out well. They were only considering because he is the last to be made and finalised.

You have faith, still. Faith you’re in good hands. That the right decisions will be made at the end of the day, that the necessary precautions will be taken. That even if Gourdy is elected the new main toon, that he will be in good hands.

He must be. He must. The rest does not concern you at all.

.

You must be officially demoted. It is in Arthur’s hands to decide what roles toons have and how they interact, and as much as Delilah argues for functionality, he has the final say.

Still, the deadline draws too near. The scripts were already slowly amended for the tweaks that were being made along the process. Even before your status was put in question, whether you were too intimidating was a reasonable doubt. You are pragmatic, critical at times, cynical and tunnel-visioned. It is not Ribecca’s fiery fury, no, rather a cold sort of silent judgment. The physical changes that must be made to the roster is the main concern.

Most time was spent on Gourdy- the expected new main toon- his parents (that is the reason they made your sister; they wanted the main to have a blood relative), his abilities as a main toon. He is the last toon to be made, and a child toon is exceptionally easy to make. He will be made a main toon from the very beginning, and no complications will arise on this front. He is in good hands.

Time was dwindling fast when it came to you. They try to diminish your power, in accordance with your demotion from head to knight. Two non-main toons that were ghosts were too repetitive.

They settle on you being a haunted suit of armour, with the similarities between your original duties and the knightly stereotype of armour. A will-o-wisp floats in a fixed domain, a suit of armour rarely moves. A will-o-wisp can make itself look like anything from the eye of a beast to a lantern, a haunted suit of armour is a ghost in disguise. They’ve even tailored your helmet’s visor to look like a furnace door when it could have been anything. It’s almost touching. Almost.

You cannot recall your memories as though you were a host, anymore. It is a slow process, progressing as more decisions are changed and finalised. You imagine your sister feels the same way. You knew this moment was coming since the first change.

You recall how you met the other toons as the main because it was too different to overwrite. You cannot forget. You have a matching recollection of how Gourdy found each of you and introduced you and your sister to Ribecca. You have kept most of your prior interactions, but most feel like a dream. You know they happened, but they do not feel real. You are the ambitious knight vying for righteousness.

They must rid you of your status. They need to, but you were told you could keep your duties and bear part of the burden for the newly crowned duke of your roster (no longer your guests and co-hosts), and that was a satisfactory enough answer for you to yield.

Your hair no longer trails behind you in uncontrollable smoulders, now fixed in a more solid state. You wonder if it was ever a fire hazard. Your formalities have been replaced with chivalry and theatrics— not a very large change, but one you aren't used to feeling on yourself yet recall being.

Still, after your deposition ceremony, mouth still reminiscent of a furnace’s maw, you know they have failed. Deep inside, you can still feel the great well of power of a main toon, but as if encased in a globe of amber, you know instinctively that you can't summon any of that strength anymore. You never will be able to again. Not unless you go against their wishes; and there is too much risk involved in that for you to wish to.

They test your skills:

• You are unaffected by ichor-related ailments or any afflictions that manifest externally.

• You are unaffected by blows from afar, a new development, but one natural to your armour.

• You still have more durability than any toon.

You were previously able to be more durable than any main toon, akin to the physical hardiness of a normal one. You're sure the armour they gave you was meant to have more durability. That was meant to be your ability upon demotion to veil your previous status.

You were also able to give yourself immunity to afflictions for a temporary period of time, such as pushing through a period of fatigue. A shift in your impenetrability. A change, but not a removal. A latency. 

You are only meant to have one ability. 

You must have been too strong. You, you are special. You are still the strongest, if only you could voice it. A main toon and a ghost toon. You may be slower, expend more energy, but you are more durable than you were before.

Yet you are asked of a favour. One final duty as the head of the house; you can’t refuse the temptation. So you follow the man responsible for your dethronement, as he pulls you to one side and asks of you something with something genuine, for once. Sincere.

“Soulvester,” he starts, “this is something the other toons don’t know about.”

You’re well aware, it’s the reason they got to you last, especially with how you weren’t troublesome to manage. The others have all had any ‘outdated’ memories replaced, save for your sister. She knows you as you, since they couldn’t change that. They just removed her memories of you being the head, not your personality.

Despite this reminder, he continues. “Since we couldn’t take you out of the loop too, I need to ask of you a bit more than the others, buddy.”

“There’s one final order I give you in the name of Gardenview, as their host, not the knight you’re going to be.” He presses a hand over the part of your helmet where your mouth should be. “I swear you to an oath of omission, swear you to secrecy. Is that clear?”

An oath of secrecy. An oath to never speak of who you were meant to be, to not speak of who you are now, and to be made anew. To be the shadow that once followed you rather than how you presented, and for how you are now to become the shadow. It is silence, it is ignorance, and absolute folly.

You cannot hide the glare that meets the gaze of the event calligrapher- the administrative control, you correct yourself.

And yet, even if it is an oath to never speak of your status, to never be acknowledged of your higher position, it is in itself an acknowledgement of your glory. It is testament to how you are now, and the fact you will never change. Even if it is to be hidden from the world, from your guests, it still remains with you.

You are still the head of the manor. You are still Soulvester Willowwisp. All that changes is the fact you do not present as such. When looking at it from that lens, suddenly, this change feels far more trivial. It matters not that they strip you of your status when you remain the same, regardless. It wasn’t like the audience ever mattered to you the way it did to other toons. They are not of Gardenview, and thus no concern to you. You never quite cared about them at all.

So you clasp your plated hand over his, and look him in the eyes. “Clear, Sir Arthur. Thank you.”

He seems to relax, unwind, as he sighs softly. One of relief, you’re certain. Perhaps he had assumed you would be uncooperative with the arrangement. “Tell me if you need anything, alright?” He smiles at you, properly, concerned. “Your situation is- ah- unique.”

Ironic, that one of the men responsible for your descent is named after a knight. Then again, by that logic, he is named after a king. A king’s orders must be obeyed. He is a well-meaning king, no matter how misguided.

You are given a script to follow, a new character basis. The other toons- of your cast and outside it- do not know who you really are, and you realise why the oath was necessary. Nonetheless, you were made to act, made for theatre. So you keep your oath.

Your sister calls you ingenuine. You have nothing to say to her.

.

“Sister, even though we are apart most of the year, I must say-” you hesitate less than you think you should, but can’t find it in you to lie- “I wish it was longer.”

You are aware she is Connie, now. She’s managed to become who she wanted to be, who she was, who she is. It was a messy, complicated, frankly unwanted process for everyone involved, but you’re all out of the woods now. Even if you’ve run from the woods into a cave system.

“Yup, same can be said here, bro.” Your sister is completely unbothered, making the effort to hover upside down in front of you, rolling her eyes. “You're way too serious all the time!”

You look at her and see a different person- happier, guided, intentional- and she is still your sister. As she is now, she is the person she wanted to be and the person she was before.

However, the way you are just Soulvester Willowwisp in disguise, she is still Boolynski. She is both the person she was and the person she used to be, no matter how much that name is a reminder of the box she was in before. It is her name— she doesn’t deny that. Connie is a nickname to her.

“And you are never serious enough,” you chide. “Though I will always be here as your protector.” She’s kept herself at eye-level for this, that much you can be grateful for.

Even if she changed her name still, it would have been less messy than Gardenview doing it for her, than her ignoring everyone because she didn’t know what the show wanted her to be to all of you. Her new name gave her the purpose she desperately needed before, the calling she felt she wasn’t living up to. If she felt so stifled before, you just wish she could have made the initiative to change on her own.

“I can be serious when I want to be!” She snaps back, though both of you know there’s no real bark. “And sure- yeah... keep larping as a knight.”

You just wish you could have made the decision to become a knight on your own.

“I am a knight!”

.

The role of Knight Soulvester has been a gift that keeps giving.

Even if the others do not remember how they touched you and gave you your new lens on the world, the role of knight is a crutch, a substitute. One kindly given by your event calligrapher to let you keep the progress you made, see the wonder outside yourself.

You, the restless spirit that saw no potential in the world outside the manor, in your own bubble for all of eternity leading up to the others. No interest in people or the sights outside, in anything other than chasing out intruders or anything could possibly fill the void in your sister's heart.

Being a knight with a creed of honour and noble intention suddenly shifts your duty from all affairs pertaining to the manor to any injustice you see. It is cathartic. It is brilliant. If only it were not an oath, it would be perfect.

If only there were a perfect world.

.

The character of the lowly knight- just Soulvester- is one of Gardenview's greatest works and your only desire. You have never seen the world clearer, with as much importance as you should have. Now you do, and it is thanks to your newfound status. It is all you desire.

It must be. It is the will of your hosts, your own will, for the will of Gardenview is the will of its toons. A gathering is a mutual effort— guests must exercise proper etiquette, and hosts must cater to each of them. You care not for your former status. You cannot. A sentiment of that sort spirals too quickly, from care to craving to mission. 

Every moment you, Willowwisp, spend in your own skin has been dubbed a wasted one; while the halls of ruins that nearly never laid eyes upon the unworthy are haunted by the forgotten spectre, the valiant humble knight is tending to necessary affairs that he alone has been deemed worthy for. Not the head of the floor.

So what does it matter that you were meant for more, once? The more you crave it, the more you live up to that version of yourself that was nothing but a megalomaniac.

Beyond that, you as you have been demanded of by the script has proven your strength. You were unable to be felled, to be made a normal toon. Nay, all they did was prevent you from being called a main toon and cover up the rough patches. 

You just wish you had a bit more freedom with it, maybe. That you could have seen the world with your knight’s oath without being bound by the other. That you could have your cake and eat it.

Still, the knight is what Gardenview needs, what the toons need. His falsified justifications of control and power will be his magnum opus, it will be a brilliant facade, and it will never die. Soulvester's unwavering, unchanging justice will be done, the strongest hiding beneath a veneer of metal and starry eyes. He is glory incarnate. You are glory incarnate.

It is the only way you will be sated. 

.

“Soulvester!" You turn to the wolf at the sudden call, wondering if she needs you. "How do you always wear that armour? It must be so heavy! Cause you're like so slow!”

You glance around the elevator to find no one else listening. Some of them are engaged in their own fervent exchanges. Good. You nearly heave a sigh of relief. You need to remind yourself that would be too obvious to the toon who's wandered right in front of you, with nothing better to do but ask innocuous inquiries.

You wish the Halloween toons weren't aware of your ability to remove your armour, at times. It would make your duties run more smoothly. She's nothing but curious, though, so you're more than willing to oblige.

“This stunning suit of armour may be cumbersome at times, though it provides me great protection.” You add a flourish of your hand you know she appreciates, letting your hair catch in the (nonexistent) wind like the tassels on a knight helmet.

You're a bit relieved for her presence, frankly. Trouble she may be, she's a breath of fresh air. She's an experience you never knew you would be blessed to have.

“Yeah, but you wear it when you don't really need protection-" she almost howls a bit, fur ruffled with barely contained energy. "Like, all the time!”

Does she worry you fear her for her transformations? No, the question's not said like that, you don't think. She's not asking if you wish to protect the others or yourself from her.

That kind of thing, then. What a bother. She mustn't know what you are- one discrepancy and all you've worked for for thirty years comes falling like a house of cards. Is that even the right amount of time? Stars, you really haven't changed a day without this veneer to live through.

What can you even say? Perhaps be a bit honest, since she's asking for more than a surface-level answer. This thought must have been nagging at her for a bit, for her to have follow-up questions.

You've paused for too long for it to be comfortable, or normal. Just say something, anything. It can't be this hard to not worry someone.

“Yes, well, I must admit-" Despite everything, you hesitate. Why is it you stumble with the others when your own sister's opinion should be more important than theirs? "I simply do not find myself knightly without such.” You force it out regardless.

You regret the statement the moment it falls into open air, clumsily, foolishly, without any of the vigour you veiled it with in your tone. It's a line unfitting of the 'brave knight' that Soulvester is meant to be, you think, with just how uncertain the words feel after escaping you with little thought.

Perhaps, just by possibility, he would be uncertain of his knighthood without his armour; but you find no confirmation to that within yourself. It would be rather intimate to attempt to enact that to prove Soulvester's depth of character, and you find that isn't your main focus at the time.

The pause that follows is suffocating.

“So you just wear it? Like, all the time?” She still has a sheepish grin on her face, head tilted to one side, almost child-like. You were never good with children. Her expression fails to conceal her shoddily veiled concern regardless. Intentional or not, she falls short either way.

You know your allies respect your space. Outside of your knightly errands, you simply are not a toon of many words. They understand. Knowing this—

“Thou wouldn't understand.”

—You shut the conversation down.

It's true, she wouldn't. You don't know if there's a single toon who ever would.

.

"C'mon," your sister insists, dragging you close to a camera. The light isn't on yet. "It's gonna be fine, didn't you star in all those episodes? This is just like that."

You weren't briefed about this, you had no time to mentally prepare for any of this.

"I have no interest in unnecessary things. This is one of those. Gardenview does not need me to have an introductory appearance, we debuted years ago-"

Your original audience is gone, your only goal is to protect and serve the toons here. What's the point?

"Have a bit of fun, geez! What are you, a killjoy?" She flies over to the device, and before you can object, she pushes a button as its light blinks red.

As vain as always. Your sister always craved the spotlight. You wonder if she thinks you feel the same. You wonder how many assumptions you've drawn about her have just been something that applied to you. You're twins; you're already similar in some regards.

She floats in front of it, waving for the audience, before flying toward you as she harshly pulls. You have half a mind to not bicker with her with a live audience like this, landing in front of it with a loud clank of your armour.

Your visor falls over your head, and you feel your sister could not be any more of a blinding nuisance than now. You pull it up, feeling yourself click into place, before a pause.

You don't need to do this. The thought is more liberating than any you've ever had. You would be a fool to sully all the episodes you'd had before, but- who's watching? This is a children's show with aired, scheduled episodes with most of its original audience grown up by now.

Couldn't you just… leave?

Your role is now solely for the toons of Gardenview. As it has been closed, your only concern with the audience are the episodes and scripts that have continued to air. That is all your benefactors demand of you.

You cross your arms without quite realising, even as your sister waves her hands enthusiastically, gesturing to you at centre stage.

It's quite fine. Even if anyone's watching, they could take this as the rivalry between her and you. A small act of rebellion, just for you. You couldn't care less about whoever's behind this screen. They can think whatever they want of you. Your sister wants to be here more. Gourdy wants to be here more.

That's all you can think about as you exit stage left.

When you glance at her, hearing her follow, all she looks is unamused. It can't be that big a deal, then.

.

"Soulvester," you turn to the voice, looking down to face the duke (your guest of honour) at his request, "are you doing okay?"

"I should be the one to ask you, my liege." You smile, knowing he'll hear it in your voice, knowing he'll see the smile in your eyes even if your mouth isn't glowing right now.

"I keep telling you that isn’t my name, silly! I’m Gourdy!" He teeters back and forth, on his heels to tip-toeing, snickering a bit to himself. He's trying to be light-hearted about his request.

You pause. "Of course, my habits have bested me-" It is the duty of a host for a gathering to entertain anything their guests ask of them. It is the duty of a knight to keep to their oaths. "-Sir Gourdy."

"Uhuh, uhuh, yeah-" he nods along excitedly, as he should, "but Gourdy is my first name, not 'Sir'!" He giggles to himself. You try to focus on the descent of the elevator, how it feels as you experience weight where you couldn't before, encased in your armour.

"Haha..." you attempt to laugh along, though you are distinctly aware of how ingenuine it sounds as it escapes your breath.

You understand, you do, and yet the vivid sensation of warmth- growing just a bit too unbearable- slowly rises under your skin. He is a mere child, of course, and he acts the part, but it is in this moment you are reminded how you were never able to be patient with children.

"Now you are acting alike to a jester." the words escape you just a bit less lightly than you would've hoped, but you hope that the attempt at a jest still shows. You look to his face for his reaction. As a child, he can't hide his feelings very well. It's still worrying that he tries to.

The look on his face remains a smile, yes, but less than before. Slightly off-kilter, not centred, just a bit too forced- he's noticed your difference in tone. He's too smart for his own good, really- while he may not be the perfect actor, as you may be, he can still see the act for what it is. Of course.

You sigh, and you see a puff of smoke escape through your visor.

"You knew what I meant." The words sound gritted through your teeth, still smiling, almost sarcastic. Your tone borders on too harsh for a child, much less the toon who is meant to be your Main Character and leader.

By all means, you should be treating him with more respect- more grace- than you are now. It's the way your sister would mock someone, and you feel a tinge of nostalgia knowing that she's still rubbing off on you in her absence.

But you were never friendly enough, nor patient enough, for the administrators (your "lords") to really allow you to handle children in person, either way.

It's not like he was made to be the Main Character.

No, no, stop that. You need to stay in character. You need to be the brave, loyal Soulvester, knight to Gourdy as the Main Toon of the Halloween Toons. He didn't ask for this position, and that is why you help him. To help a child handle the responsibilities of a Main Character while you handle all the duties you were made for.

You look back at him. The look on his face is one tinged with confusion, and a hint of hurt. Here you blindly thought you'd have learnt to be better at this by now.

You can't forget the look on his face.

.

"Hello, mister knight-in-shining-armour," you're thrilled to hear the owner of the voice, glancing to your side to face her. She's leaned over with a bony hand on her hip, eyes crinkled, "you know you got some scratches on there?"

Ribecca, always eager to help in her own way, to embrace anything with stride and encourage the others to do the same. She's been looking out for the others even before any paradigm shift, but especially so after two of them.

You amicably oblige her. "Well, I'd consider them simply proof of my many expeditions in Gardenview." She can definitely see the proud smile on your face from under the shade of your visor, or if not hear it in every word of your tone. She returns the gesture.

"You know I could always help fix that armour up for you, pal." She's casual, knowing it's not a very easy ask with how little she's ever seen you without the armour- that being never.

A gesture of good will. You know that. If not for Boolynski nonchalantly spewing the fact with the rest of her drabble that day, they wouldn't pester you about this. Still, she wants everyone to look their best and most true to themselves. It's her job.

Even without knowing you could take it off, she'd probably ask you to hold still like you always do, still as a statue, and polish it for you that way. Ask if you could be disassembled like she could be, which you would have to turn down for fear she see your face.

"Hark, Ribecca, for I have no need... I am most comfortable within the suit of armour." You decline, as cordially as you possibly could, knowing better. You've blown your cover far too often these years, despite how you've all been keeping busy.

"It'd only be for a moment, Soulvester." She's understanding, but still shoots you an almost unamused look, as if she expected the response yet finds herself pressing anyway. She tries to keep things on a high note.

You can't entertain this. As if you haven't learned at all from the other two—

"I refuse."

—It's a bit too curt for the knight that goes on lengthy tangents of justice and righteousness. It's enough.

You wonder if this is how she felt with your sister. You don't press the thought any further.

.

Often, when you are not aiding quests in a descent to lower floors, you are thinking. Standing sentry leaves you with little to do but think, frankly. 

Your thoughts though, are tangled in gilded webs that go in inescapable circles. Even so, there’s not much else to occupy yourself with, not much left but this, no matter how tiring it is. This is something you can't untangle yourself from, nor truly ever leave behind.

Pacing the floors of your season, you are aware of three things:

• Gourdy is the first priority. With the closure of Gardenview, his parents’ progress has ceased. 

• Eclipse has mostly overcome grappling with the concept of being your sister’s replacement, but she still struggles with being the wallflower at times.

• Ribecca is no longer angry with Connie. That does not mean she has no reason to be angry. She’s angry on behalf of those she cares for— Gourdy especially, now.

You scan the area. You know Eclipse would be suppressing the urge to pace by this point, if her mind was racing how yours is. All you can bring yourself to do is watch, anything else feels too unnecessary. A few more things come to you:

• If you were kept the main toon, Gourdy would not have learnt the lessons he has from the role- no matter how much pressure it is for a child- and his parents would not exist.

• If Gourdy was the main toon from the very beginning, you would be a suit of armour, and your sister would not exist.

• If your sister had not won the popularity poll, she would not have found her purpose, and Eclipse would have been scrapped.

• If you had more time, Mr. and Mrs. Holloway would be finished but unmade, because a seasonal roster is only meant to have four toons.

Gourdy no longer has the illusion of ignorance- he now knows he cannot remember their faces. You know their faces do not exist.

The reason they needed to replace your sister is because a holiday cast is strictly four toons; no less, no more. They made Eclipse instead of one of Gourdy’s parents because she already had foundations, unlike the Holloways that needed to be made from scratch. Eclipse was made with the rest of you— Gourdy’s parents were only a concept after he was elected a main toon.

To think all of this could have been avoided. If he had been made with his parents, they would have been able to alleviate the pressure on him from his role, even if it would have jeopardized some of you. Even just one of them would have been reassuring.

If they had made Connie a year-round toon from the beginning, maybe. If you had been made as just armour to be a year-round toon, maybe. If he could have had them and still been main, he would have been the best version of himself. He could learn responsibility while having nothing to grieve or miss.

He would be happy. He would have one of them right now.

You cannot tell Gourdy why he cannot remember his parents’ faces and has not even before the closure of Gardenview. You cannot tell Eclipse she is more than a replacement. You cannot tell Ribecca why you are so grateful for her reliable presence.

You cannot tell anyone anything, anymore. You are bound by oath: not as a knight, but as a main toon, as a host, as the head. As someone responsible for your precious people. As the protector of all toons under this roof.

It is better to let Eclipse grapple with her “replacement” status and be equals with them than tell her she was scrapped in favour of someone she admires to this day, or is lesser than them all for being such. It is better to let Gourdy think his parents were just unfinished due to time constraints and the closure of Gardenview and their progress was never left on “indefinite hiatus”. It is better to let Ribecca support the others and grow frustrated with her lack of personal involvement than let her have someone else to rage for.

Ribecca has been one of the only few toons you could rely on. Her memories do not fluctuate as Gourdy’s once had while his parents were being made- slow trickles of information as things were confirmed. Her creation was never up for debate like Eclipse, or hinging on another toon like the Holloways and your sister. She would always be there. 

As Ribecca has always been here, it is no wonder she feels irritatingly detached. Your sister’s leave had them worried over you, Eclipse needed you all to guide her through being a seasonal toon while you all were struggling with what the popularity poll meant for the status quo, and Gourdy’s memories are currently being called into question right now. She's even coming to terms with the fact all of you are in this as a team: meaning her being Boolynski's best friend meant just as much to her as you being the latter's sister.

Is it surprising, you ask yourself? No, not at all. It’s something she and Eclipse have been bonding over, as of late, feeling left out of the loop. There’s nothing to be done about it, and it would be folly to wish for ill fortune on themselves. They don’t wish for that- just that they were more involved, that they could do more, know more. Answer all the questions everyone's- hah!- dying to know.

Having your closest allies struggle while lacking a personal stake themselves in comparison would feel that way, after all; even if Ribecca was your sister’s best friend, and even if Eclipse is Gourdy’s playmate. 

Eclipse being Boolynski’s replacement is a shoddy excuse as it is. She is nothing like your sister, with no hint of her mischief or lackadaisical nature in the slightest. She gets in some trouble with her bursts of excessive energy and lack of spatial awareness, sure— the amount of times she has knocked something over while getting her thoughts out by running amok outnumbers the pumpkins on the floor.

Yet it’s not enough. You’re making an effort to teach her proper discipline and help manage her strength and emotions. Her troublemaking has not made her your rival in the slightest. Boolynski was your rival. Eclipse is your student, almost. Someone you want to train to be a guard dog. She is friends with Ribecca for completely different reasons than the skeleton and poltergeist were. They weren’t even meant to resonate on the fronts they do. She still plays with Gourdy, but less as someone doing tricks with him, more someone sharing his smaller joys.

You’re stunned the others haven’t seen it. You’re stunned she herself hasn’t seen it.

Connie. She was given a role that didn’t feel like enough for the purpose all toons were given; to entertain. Her pranks were always in good fun. Her efforts were always for her friends, and they continue to be. She had her hiccups, but she returned in the end. Talked, in the end.

She has surpassed you, now.

.

Gardenview’s judgments were right. Your sentence was a blessing in disguise. It has been decades since your depositioning. Perhaps two, perhaps three. That is not your main concern.

Though you had always felt dread feeling the elevator descend, you particularly weren’t fond of this floor. More specifically, you aren’t fond of this floor after discovering what lay inside. You’re searching for machines to extract, with how efficient you are, when you see it. 

Your form, but twisted, warped, contorted. Starry eyes gleaming for an opportunity, sword drawn at the ready where you otherwise never even openly carry, dripping with ichor from the inside despite your armour being almost pristine. You draw yours, backing away, leading it away from your troops.

You are aware of the fact your Twisted is the cleanest of the Halloween toons. This fact does not soothe you; it only leaves you more on edge. Your armour renders you immune to ichor leaks and puddles. How could these duplicates of yours possibly have been corrupted?

You challenge your Twisted, pointing your sword at it in facsimile to a duel proposal. It pays the other toons no mind at the sight. You are aware of the fact you cannot be hurt nor die. To you and your sister, taking blows from Twisteds is not a matter of life or death.

However, you can still feel pain. One too many blows, and you will not be able to withstand the cumulative attacks— from Lethal ones exceptionally so. If either of you collapse and are not dragged back to the elevator, you will Twist. Luckily for you, your armour saves you a bit of the force, a bit of the pain.

Hot breath seeping through your visor to attack your senses, a mirrored blade landing heavily against yours, you find your answer. The hunger for power, the seeking of strength, none of it had ever left you. Some of the Twisteds retain some semblance of themselves: Glisten and Gourdy being the only two.

Still, it means your Twisted is still you. You see it in the way it shakes its head in frustration, running a hand over where its temple should be whenever it loses sight of someone. It is not meant to be that aware or animated.

It pushes forward, leaving your armour creaking, your heels digging in. You should be more concerned about yourself, but only one thought flashes through your mind: did those versions of you choose to be Twisted?

No, you tell yourself, don’t be daft. It’s the only conclusion that makes sense, though. The main toons all gained a vast amount of power from the process, both Dancifer as the main host and Timesly as a vital staff member especially. Your biology is flawed, a main toon caged to be barely a facsimile of a normal one. It is no coincidence you share similar capacities to Duke Holloway.

You push back, freeing yourself from the advance with a slashing motion, driving it back slightly. If you had remained a main toon, the main on the Halloween floors would not be a Half-Twisted. If you had not been dethroned, your Twisted’s assumption would have been correct, and it would have turned into a monster.

You look into its irises, where stars have been carved out.

Can it?

Gigi’s had stars in her eyes from hoarding too much ichor, a manifestation of her greed. Blot’s twisted form didn’t have normal eyes either, most likely because he was the most condensed in ichor of everyone. If yours has those eyes, could it still go further? Is your armour all that’s stopping it? Is all that’s stopping it from twisting its lessened dexterity? All because it twisted within the cage? Hollow stars, unrealised potential. Completely unlike that of your sister's friend.

Its gaping maw glows with fire and a hunger for more. It refuses to close it, breathing warm air you still feel from its earlier attack. Its eyes glint dangerously. It does not want to keep its oath, it is bound to it.

You pivot, walking away to preserve energy, turning around a corner. You are slower than your sister, now. You feel the strain of moving exceptionally so, your form encased in armour.

That is neither knight nor host. That is a monster, some thing, hiding under a more presentable form. It’s waiting for a moment to strike. You cannot duel it.

The duplicates are based off the forms of the original toons. Even still, you assumed armour or amount of ichor never mattered. With the ichor it has, it is much like the others, unable to speak. Unable to break your sworn secrecy. 

A version of you overcome with power-hunger and hubris, breaking your oath in every way. Your mouth is a key part of your design, your status.

Razzle and Dazzle have the same foundation with different cosmetics because they are twins. You and your sister- if you had both been intended to be non-main toons (if she continued to exist), would have the same face, with different colours and hairstyles, and that would be the end. The other related toons are not twins, and any attentive toons would realise what your features meant.

If you had been made a normal toon, you would have been made your armour. You were not, are not. That “you” would have broken the silence if it could. 

A version of you that drew his sword and did not fight to protect. A version of you chasing power, to protect what he is rightfully owed and no one else, chasing the past.

It’s just you. 

You break out into a run at the notion. It can’t be. It can’t.

You manage to get your hands on the machine closest to the elevator- mercifully reserved by your party members- and aren’t the last to the elevator as a result.

You have no casualties, as is thankfully the norm, and make your descent for a few more floors before ascending to the main floor. Save for one or two toons knocked out, or a few injuries, this is a successful haul. 

The dread does not leave you.

.

You always wondered if there would be an end to this, to be frank.

Not for lack of skill, of course. You are a natural-born actor; toons are meant to be their roles by creation, but you were meant to have a theatrical flair from the beginning, a trait that ever-so-slightly off-set your originally lacking lines.

Theatre, acting all of it, this role has helped you gain a perspective you could not be more grateful for. Trying to put down the mantle would be akin to asking Connie to overturn her promotion— it was regrettable how it was executed, but both of you would rather die. Or, well, you suppose it would be Twisting. Neither of you really have bodies to swear on.

Still, you wondered when Gardenview would close and the show would end, because only one of those two has happened, and you never actually knew if there would be an end. For as long as children existed (which was always) there was little to no reason your banner would ever fade out of relevancy.

On the off-chance it happened though, you wondered if you could just come clean. Stop needing to be the character for the show. For the toons. You needed to do this to ensure there was less turmoil after the closure of the establishment, so the others wouldn't worry or be caught off-guard. A toon starting different from their role instead of deviating over time was unheard of, from what you knew.

You wondered if you could be both.

It appears the time is not quite right. It's alright; what's another few decades? Toons are virtually immortal so long as their needs are met, food, water, things like that. Moreover, your sister and yourself are already postmortem. There is nothing that could overcome either of you.

You don't need anyone to know how fed up with the situation you are. You don't need to justify stumble after stumble. You don't need them to know how much you know, the reasons behind every nonsensical decision.

Despite how the others have changed- grown, withered, for better or for worse- you have remained yourself. Unchanged, untouchable as long as you are suspended in this form, until you succumb to the gentle hand that holds you.

No matter how much the others may wish they could stay the same forever, you wish you could change. Maybe that way, Gourdy would have never been burdened with this duty. Yet again, though, you are reminded he wouldn't trade his parents for the world.

If you could've just had a bit longer, the part of you that yearns for a past unlived, encased in amber forever, whispers like the devil on your shoulder.

Wouldn't he at least have them, though? Flyte has Flutter. Ginger has Cosmo. Couldn't they have made his parents as year-round toons? Couldn't they have, if they'd had a bit more time?

Haven't you stayed exactly the same, your first draft, the thing they wanted to be rid of so badly?

You are your own first draft. All the revisions, all the amendments— they could not contain you. In the end, you are Soulvester Willowwisp, the head of the floor and host of this festive gathering. 

Of course, that is your secret to keep, and yours alone. You would know, wouldn't you?