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[ INTERIOR: A strange room high in the clouds. The reader is met with the scent of mildew and old books. Click Clack’s domain must be familiar to the audience, of course, but there is one small change in the holy editing room... ]
Something is very wrong with Click Clack.
That is the only explanation he can muster for the way he currently feels. His paw-like hands grasp awkwardly at silky fabric, he stumbles around in shoes that make him look taller than he is [The God of Storytelling still feels very small right now, no matter how many inches the shiny black shoes give him-] and he accidentally smudges some colorful powder off of his mask as he does.
The moment is badly written. Completely out of character. A page he should tear out and throw straight to the trash, no need to even bother editing it. It needs to be cut out entirely to fit the story.
And yet, he makes no step towards Georgia. He does not grab his red pen to cross out the scene, he doesn’t even look at the paper that the typewriter holds firm in her grip.
[ The God of Storytelling had expected something… grandiose! Some emotion stirring within him that would make him want to change the arc of his character entirely! ]
[ He’s not sure what he’s feeling, but it certainly isn’t that. ]
A strange knot pulls itself taut in his gut as he watches his form in the full-length mirror. He thinks it’s his form, anyhow. It looks strange and unfamiliar.
A dress. That’s all that changed about him, really. The dark powder on his mask is now smudged and looks more like spilled ink than makeup, and the black heels are hardly noticeable under the frills of the dress that matches its color.
[ A sheet of fabric is chaotic in nature, but when cut into clean shapes and sewn together with a careful and trained hand, it can make something… pretty, for current lack of a better word. Click Clack is familiar with the process- it isn’t too unlike editing a script. ]
[ But when the story is published, there’s no way to truly tell whether or not the audience will enjoy it. The only way to know is to send it out into the world. ]
[ This story has only one member in its audience, and yet it seems to have opened to negative feedback on just the pilot episode. ]
“Whatever.” [ Click Clack grumbles, kicking one of the many loose bits of paper around his desk. ]
[ He watches the scrap elegantly fall to the floor before turning back to the mirror and the person within it staring back at him with a tearful look. ] “I just don’t understand,” [ the God of Storytelling murmurs to himself. ] “I’ve been working up to this for so long! Trying to build this courage brick by brick! Why doesn’t this feel… good?! Why is this not satisfying?” [ Click Clack vents, watching as the man in the mirror copies his actions closely. ]
Click Clack sits down on his little chair and spins himself on it while he mutters annoyances and frustrated complaints under his breath.
The world around him blurs together and he begins to get a little dizzy as he revolves. But the nausea is better than the revulsion he feels when he looks at his reflection.
[ As he spins, Click Clack sees a vaguely roundish shape near his window- at first, he is under the impression that the blur of yellow is the cardboard sun hanging high from the ceiling, but after a few more spins, his narration is interrup- ]
“HEYHELLOHI CLICKFRIENDCLACK!” Huzzle Mug yells in that strange vernacular it takes much pride in.
[ The God of Storytelling jumps out of his seat mid-spin from shock, sending his dizzied self straight to the floor. ] “I thought I made the sign pretty clear- I wasn’t- I’m not accepting guests right now!” [ The blush on his face isn’t just artificial anymore. He feels a sense of embarrassment and horror sink into his chest knowing that a fellow god has now seen him wearing something he absolutely shouldn’t be wearing, even if he knows deep down that Huzzle Mug would be very understanding of his situation. ]
“Jotwrite it down in Buzzhuzzian and maybhaps I’ll listenreads it! I wantedsmuch to visee you!” It sits down on a pile of books, crossing its legs and using its long neck to peer down at the currently very tiny Click Clack. “And whazzaboutsthis you think you ‘[ shouldn’t be wearing ]’ your beautyniceful dressclothes!”
[ Click Clack internally curses his subconscious narration, not intending to let that slip one bit. ] “It’s nothing, nothing at all!” [ He insists with an edge to his voice, using the stool to pick himself up from the floor and stand in front of the comparatively large God. ] “Now out, out! I asked for no visitors to be here for a reason!” [ Click Clack pushes its leg with his tiny hands as a feeble attempt to get it out of his domain. ]
“Goshsheesh Clack-Clickity, I can takesiesgrabsies a hint!” It stands up, towering over its little friend who takes a step away from it. It sharply turns on its heel towards the exit to his domain, looking quite ready to return to its dune after Click Clack’s little outburst- but before it does, it cranes its long neck backwards to look down at the Storytelling God once more. “But I thinksies you look muchverys goodstyled in that gownydress! Be niceysfella to your fellaself!”
[ Click Clack can’t quite find the words to respond, so instead he nods sheepishly as the other god exits his domain. ]
He turns to the mirror, still propped up right next to his chair. He somehow looks even smaller than he had before.
“…This is just a dress up scene,” [ The god assures himself, looking up at Georgia (not down, this is no error- he finds he’s become very, very small during his talk with Huzzle Mug-) instead of at the mirror. ] “A trope done over and over again! This is just the start of a montage with increasingly ridiculous outfits made to get a laugh out of the audience, ending with our lead character eventually sticking with their original outfit of choice!”
[ Click Clack nods confidently, now staring down at Georgia’s keys well enough to see the letters inscribed on them. ]
“Though… I may as well keep this one on.” [ He supposes, putting a finger up to the bottom of his mask as he ponders. ] “Our protagonist has lots of writing to do, and there’s no reason to waste time getting changed again.”
[ Click Clack hums contentedly at his own explanation, though he knows very well it’s nothing but a cover up, then quickly gets to work at making the sounds of his namesake as he click-clacks away at the keys, eager to continue writing the script of fate. ]
Click Clack takes a just moment to glance back up at the mirror, watching that person inside stare back.
[ He waves. She waves back. ]
Then the both of them get back to their work, neither wanting to dissect nor discuss the horrifying implications of the narration.
[ …But as they work, they can’t help but wonder that maybe the person in the mirror isn’t as frightening as they first thought. ]
[ END SCENE. ]