Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"...What would you do if I abstracted tomorrow?"

It would be funny—hilarious, even—in any other scenario.

Jax is painfully, keenly aware of this, the very millisecond he registers the question for what it is.

Funny, just how cleanly the words hit. Hilarious, just how smoothly—how easily—they sink into him, razor-sharp talons latching onto a non-existent heart.

Latching. And squeezing.

(And it would be absolutely hysterical, just how familiar of a sensation it is. )

Familiar. Jax 's hands drop, dangling uselessly at his sides.

(Familiar in the way those talons drag, jagged edges catching on the non-existent flesh with each flutter of his equally non-existent pulse—rapid, frantic. Familiar in the way his chest squeezes with it, tighter, tighter, tighter, tighter with every breath. )

Familiar. Jax turns, face carefully blank, movements fluid. Unbothered.

(Familiar in just how simple it is to seize those talons, to rip them away. To shove them—and only them, because it doesn't hurt, it doesn't hurt—deep, deep, deep down.)

Pomni hasn't moved. Not an inch. Her eyes—always so big—seem impossibly bigger as they meet his. Something she does with no hesitance. No glancing up, or down, or to the sides. She doesn't attempt to avoid him. Not at all. She simply stares, brows furrowed, expression so very serious on her unserious cartoon face.

(And it is familiar—like breathing, like blinking—just how smoothly, how easily, his response forms on his fake, cartoon tongue.)

"...I'd move on." The grin on his face has never felt so paper-thin, but he can't bring himself to care. All he can feel are the words exiting his closed teeth, absent of any of his usual humor as he digs into the jester just as hard as her words (repulsively) have dug into him. "And probably forget about you."

He says it because he knows it will hurt her. He says it because it's what his character would do. The Funny One would never be held down by something as pitiful as grief, that was Gangle's thing. Or maybe Ragatha's because she apparently "oh so cared."

(He says it because he wishes it was true. Because it should be true. Who is Jax to mourn? He's fine. He's always fine. )

"Okay... okay... I understand."

He doesn't care. He shouldn't care. A key part of Jax's character is that he doesn't care about people. He hurts people for fun and laughs at their agony. Consequences and disappointment from others are only supposed to fuel him further.

He doesn't care.

(Then why, why, does the empty look Pomni gives back to him fill him with so much guilt? Why does he feel that (ever old, ever familiar) pain that he just let someone down? He's Jax. Jax is never one people should have hope for. There should never even be a reason for him to let people down because they should never expect anything from him. And if they do, that's their own fault, and Jax sure as hell shouldn't feel guilty about it.)

(He's done feeling responsible for other people's happiness.)

(But then why, why, why does part of him want to take it back?)

He looks to the checkered floor beneath him, and he feels so much irritation. Irritation at this dumb jester for expecting anything different. Irritation at the part of himself that feels bad about it.

Because doesn't her and that dumb part of him realize he can't take it back? He can't answer any other way. What is he supposed to say? That her abstraction would devastate him? That it would leave a gaping hole in his chest that he would struggle to patch up with cruel humor and malicious pranks? That the pathetic, rabbit-like part of himself would want to go running from the idea of ever letting anyone that close to him again?

He would never say that. Because that's not him. The Funny One doesn't feel things like that.

(He hasn't been a very good Funny One lately though, has he?)

He scoffs in exasperation at her. At himself. At everything. He clings to the familiar indifference, the lack of care. He dials up the cruelty because he needs to make sure no one has forgotten just who he's supposed to be.

"Geez, you really can't take a joke, can you?"

It's what he needs to say. And not because he feels remorse for having hurt her (he doesn't do that), but because that's what the character he made for himself would say. Jax pushes people too far and then he laughs at them for having the gall to feel things when it was clearly just a joke (like everything is with him, because he's the Funny One.)

(It's not because the empty, pained look she gave him made him want to sink into the ground. It's not because as she turns away from him, gun still in her grasp, he starts to wonder if she's about to turn the gun on herself. It's not because part of him revolts at the idea and anxiously wonders what that would mean for her (because yeah, getting shot doesn't actually kill them, but the fact she turned the gun on herself could be the catalyst to something far worse.))

Still, out of the all the reactions he was expecting, Pomni spinning around and throwing the gun at him, straight in the face is not one of them.

"You're not the funny one!"

"Uh…" Huh? What? What is she even- "I don't think that counts." What is she even trying to accomplish here? Yeah, he was trying to goad her into shooting him, but that only works if she shoots him. Not… they're not playing one of Ragatha's stupid softball games!

Pomni doesn't appear to get that message though, because the next thing he knows the short, maniac is lunging at him. And…

And he doesn't know what the hell is going on. Because even when Pomni was trying to be "evil," she had limits (laaame), and whatever her actual archetype is… it doesn't seem likely to include attacking people.

The fact she knocks him to the ground, that her hands go straight to his throat, quickly proves otherwise.

For someone so tiny, Pomni sure is strong. Jax wheezes, shrieks, gurgles—gasping for air that he doesn't need, the fingers coiled around her wrists—tugging, yanking—only serving to make her iron grip tighten further.

Nonexistent lungs burn. Cartoon eyes water. He braces gloved palms to the floor, lifting himself just enough to slam his foot into her chest.

A blur of color streaking through the air. A thud.

Jax seizes the opportunity for what it is, clambering to his feet. The fire in his lungs sputters almost instantly, but he barely pays it a thought, gaze unshifting from where Pomni lies against an eye-blindingly neon block. "Hey—"

Already, she's moving.

Turning, bracing herself on her hands and knees.

"—what are you doing?!"

A rubix cube to the face is his only response.

Jax moves without thinking, years of instincts honed by adventure, after adventure, after adventure making it almost pitifully easy for him to duck out of the way.

The same cannot be said for the flower pot.

It collides head on. Literally. Straight where his nose would be if this body had one, and he yelps—more out of surprise, than any actual pain (it is a cartoon flower pot)—taking half a step back.

That's as far as he gets.

Because Pomni—

Because Pomni starts running. Full speed. At him. And Jax tries. He does—spinning on his heel, fully prepared to book it, to get as far away from this train wreck of a conversation (from her) as possible—

Needle-sharp teeth to the leg put a swift stop to that.

Jax yelps. Again. This time, very much not out of surprise. And his hands find her shoulders. And he shoves, sending her stumbling onto a square of squeaky-clean white tile.

"Fight back!" she demands. Immediately.

What?

"Are you crazy?"

In any other situation, he'd be very aware of the irony.

This is not any other situation.

Pomni's face—angry, crazy—doesn't change. "I said, fight back!"

And then she's running. Again.

And then she's lunging. Again.

Perhaps he should've expected it. In character or not, after the third (fourth?) attack, it seems a given Pomni would try again. Vaguely, he's aware of this. He should've, to some degree, seen it coming.

He doesn't.

Maybe it's the absolute absurdity of it all, maybe he's losing his touch—

(You just realized this?)

—but it isn't until she's on him, actually on him, legs around his waist in some twisted facsimile of a piggyback ride, fists beating his head and gloved fingers scratching at his ears—

(Ow, ow, ow, ow!)

—that his thoughts actually manage to catch up.

"Stop!"

She hits the ground, splayed out like a pancake.

(Funny. Hilarious. Hysterical)

He should laugh. He should mock.

He stares instead. Pants, gasps—body aching in the exact way he hates. Because it shouldn't ache. He's a cartoon, for fuck's sake, but it does. He aches. He hurts. He—

She's panting too. Sitting up, palms flat to the tile.

Did I hurt her?

Jax shoves the thought down the second it surfaces, choking in another lungful of air.

"What's wrong with you?"

"Why didn't you fight back?" She asks from her kneeling position on the ground, and with her anger is clear desperation.

Is she fucking-

That's what this is about?!

"Oh, here we go. Here we go! Because I didn't fight back, that means I secretly care about you?!"

How many times does he have to say it? How many times does he have to prove it? He. Does. Not. Care.

About anyone!

(Caring about people means not wanting to let them down. It means sacrificing parts of himself to keep them happy. It means pretending and smiling and being perfectly okay, because as much as people like to say they'll be there when things are rough, that's never true.)

(They can say they love him as much as they want. That doesn't change the fact that the moment he stops being who they want him to be, they'll leave him high and dry. That doesn't change the fact that they don't love him but only the person they want him to be.)

And here is Pomni. Expecting him to be someone else. Something else. As if he hasn't said time and time again who he is.

She just thinks-

"I'm just a misunderstood little chicken fetus in an egg that needs to be cracked open. Well, I am NOT!"

She wants to keep digging. Wants to find something else. Wants him to be different. Thinks she needs to "fix him" like everyone else in this damn circus apparently needs to be fixed.

There is nothing deeper though. There is no egg. It's a rock. He's just a one-dimensional character. An archetype. Part of the machine like everything else here. She's expecting to find a person and there isn't one.

There is no chicken. There is no egg. It's just him. And this is it. This is what he is, what he chose to be. And the fact she even wants to suggest-

"I do not care about you, or ANYONE ELSE in this circus in the slightest! End of story!"

If he wanted to care he would. But he doesn't, because why should he? Caring only leads to pain. Pain when he pulls a prank and there isn't someone besides him to do a frog-like laugh as they watch the chaos unfold. Pain whenever he spots a red bow tie. Pain when Ragatha accuses him of only getting close to someone to corrupt them. Pain when the smiles coming from Gangle actually seem genuine when she's with Zooble, as if she truly was capable of feeling something other than sadness. Pain when Kinger stares off into the distance as if he's looking at something no one else can see, Jax's mind seeming to forget that Kinger is literally the "Crazy One." Pain when-

Stop. No. He doesn't feel pain. He doesn't feel anything. The only thing he feels, the only thing he lives for is…

"You are my playthings, and I get joy out of making you SUFFER."

Joy when he breaks Gangle's comedy mask. Joy when he puts centipedes in Ragatha's room. Joy when he takes Zooble's parts and scatters them throughout the circus. Joy when he cuts the heads off of Gangle's anime figures (while wearing gloves because ew those things are disgusting.) Joy when throws Ragatha into a pit of electric eels, or trips her so he can get away from Caine's gooey monster made of sludgy (unbranded to avoid copy-write) Capri-Sun. Joy when he uses Gangle's body as a clothes line and hangs Ragatha's most embarrassing outfits from her for the rest of the circus to see.

"I'm the one who causes pain for FUN!" It is. This is him. This is him. This is who he needs to be. "If I led you on, it was just to make this part hurt you more."

There was no other reason he would let Pomni get so close to him. There was no other reason he would have actually shared the reason (or one of them) behind his stupid corn fear (seriously, how dumb is he? What's to stop her from using that against him.) There was no other reason for him to actually act (actually feel) worried when Pomni dashed down the hall chasing after Zooble without him. No other reason for him to like singing with her. To even let her hug him for a second.

No. Other. Reason.

But the horror on Pomni's face is like a knife. Like those ever familiar talons returning and digging right into his chest. (Failure. He failed her.) He turns away because he has to. He's said all he's needed to say. And if he tries to talk any more-

He shoves down the pain, the guilt, the grief that is seeping out of the wounds those talons have left on him, but it just all comes gushing out. A wound unable to be clotted, as if his body has just given up.

…And maybe it has. Because as he starts to bleed out, all he feels is tired.

"F—k."

And he knows he's lost the plot, because part of his role is that he doesn't swear. As the Funny One he has more creative ways to express his feelings than something as unoriginal as swearing (he's not Zooble after all,) and besides, he's a cartoon rabbit. He's not supposed to swear. The censors actively prohibit it, and while Jax likes breaking rules, this is one he's unable to circumvent so he doesn't try. (Why would he? He would just fail? He would just be reminded of the fact that everything he says and does is filtered by some "higher being." That everything he does is because someone "allows it.")

He looks down at his left hand, just another thing that's betrayed him, because ever since he's pushed Pomni away from him from that dumb, stupid hug, he's been hyper aware of it. It feels like it's buzzing. Like he can still feel her touch on him, can still feel the force he used when he pushed her away, can still feel that strange burning when she left his grasp, as if part of his body wanted her to just stay.

Which is stupid. Because Jax doesn't do hugs. Or touches. The only touch he does are ones he initiates when he's trying to tease someone. No one willing touches him… not unless it's Zooble trying to strangle him or wack him because he hurt their precious Gangle.

(And he's relieved no one touches him. Because then he doesn't have to think about hands roaming all over him, holding him down as he's forced to lay there and unable to move as—)

No.

"F—K!"

He kicks something. He doesn't quite know what but his foot (paw? whatever the hell it is) makes contact with something. And as that thing rolls away from him, so does any remaining energy in his joke of a body.

He's numb. He's empty. He's tired. He feels nothing and he can't even bring himself to care that this is never something his character should be showing.

He breathes heavily, which is so stupid because he doesn't often even get hot and his lungs are actually in prime condition (or well… they were before he joined this fuckfest of a circus.) He breathes and it's so stupid because none of this is real and he doesn't need to breathe, yet he can't stop.

That's all he can think about. That and a million other things that are spinning around in his mind. It's a storm to sort through, and Jax doesn't have the energy.

He just—

He needs her to—

He can't—

The last words out of his mouth are a plea. A tired prayer. And Jax would hate himself for being so pathetic but he can't even do scrounge up the feeling to even do that.

"There's nothing more to me. So, please, just stop looking."

And then he turns and leaves. Leaves Pomni and her questions and her hopes and her disappointment and her claim of friendship on the ground. He leaves and goes…

Where is he supposed to go after this? Adventures usually don't end this early, or well- it is early, right? It's hard to tell given that things like "day" and "night" don't really exist, and all they have to go off of are their internal cycles and Caine's scheduling.

He could go to his room. Go take a nap, but the idea of being confronted by all the mirrors layering his room's walls and ceiling makes him feel nauseous and even more exhausted.

(He misses their room. He misses their den. But he sure as hell isn't going back there (if there even is anything to go back to), not after-)

The choice is taken out of Jax's gloved hands, as most things often are in this hellhole (and in his old life, who is he kidding) as Caine teleports him outside some theater which has NPC mannequins flooding in with bright lights coming from the building and a sign that says…

Something.

He doesn't care.

There is some cheerful-ass music playing as he follows the flowing crowd of characters into the building. He'd honestly rather be anywhere else, but Jax knows very well that attempting to leave would only end with him getting more questions. And the last thing he wants is to have to try and appease an overly sensitive, overgrown set of dentures.

Nobody better approach him. Because after everything, the idea of having to force that wide grin on his face, the idea of having to actually hear his voice makes him want to throw himself into the Void.

(And wouldn't that just be easier?)

Just get through this. Caine tends to have these things drag on and on because he's a whore for attention, but at least that means Jax doesn't need to do anything. He can just sit there and—

And think.

With his thoughts.

Ew.

Entering the actual theater, Jax can see the rest of the cast sitting off to the side. A space carved out for them devoid of the wooden mannequins (which Caine likely only ever makes to fill up space and make himself feel more important.) Gangle and Zooble are sitting together, still caught up in the delusion that the grumpy toybox character could actually make the pile of ribbons happy. And then a row in front of them sits the loon, the ragdoll, and—

Pomni.

Shit.

Normally he'd go right over and sit by them, finding ways to harass the others throughout the performance (and hey, they should be lucky, Jax is able to actually make these things entertaining), but right now…

Sitting by Pomni. Her too-big eyes looking at him and pleading for something Jax could never give. Seeing the pain on her face and the rebellious part of his mind actually feeling guilt (and he shouldn't feel guilty. He should just get pleasure and laugh at her pain—) Having her ask questions in ear shot of the others (assuming she hasn't already opened her big mouth and blabbed about their conversation.) Having the others begin to also ask questions— Ragatha's need to "save" others, Gangle's pity (as if that crybaby should feel pity for anyone but herself), Zooble's know-it-all attitude…

No thanks.

He turns away from the open seat they've left for him (and ha! It should be laughable that they even left him a seat) and notices a vacant spot further in the back, on the other side of the theater, that has not yet been taken by an NPC.

Perfect.

The chattering of the NPCs around him are like little knives in his too sensitive ears, and Jax wants to ask them why they're even pretending like they're real. Like they're fri—

"If I shoot you right now, are we still gonna be friends afterwards?"

"We were never friends."

These wooden mannequins don't need friends. And Jax sure as hell doesn't need them either.

The lights begin to dim, and with it so does the nonsense babbling, and Jax is grateful for a moment before everyone around begins to applaud. The noise deafening and only pissing him off more because what's even the point of this? Does Caine, an AI, seriously need affirmation from a bunch of bits of code?

None of this is fucking real. It doesn't matter. The cheering and the laughs and the friendship and the feelings. None of it is real. They aren't even real, so what's the point of—

"Have you ever thought that this might be what causes people to abstract in the first place?"

God. Who does she think she is?

Who does she think she is?

Caine's voice booms somewhere above, a spotlight sweeping over the crowd.

Blinding. Painfully so.

(Is it brighter than his usual theatrics?)

It blinks out of existence. Jax blinks with it.

(Of course not. Why would it be? Why would it?)

Caine is talking still—something about a committee, something about nominees. It all blurs, somewhere at the back of Jax's mind. Buzzing like a hive of the bees he seems so damn obsessed with.

(Like the thrum of hospital machinery. )

And Jax tries, for once. To focus on it. To cling to each stupid syllable coming out of Caine's stupid— face. Because he doesn't care, not in the slightest, about any of this, but if he doesn't think about this, then he'll think about—

About—

About—

He can see her. The top of her dumb jester hat, dangling with each minute shift of her head. The colors, red, and blue, and—

Who does she think she is? Who the hell does she think she is, throwing the blame in his face like that? She never even knew Kaufmo! Never knew how nosy he was, how pushy, how, how, how much of an asshole he was near the end.

"...What would you do if I abstracted tomorrow?"

He presses his face into his hand.

The fur is sickly soft, under gloved fingertips.

"I'd move on. And probably forget about you."

It's not a lie.

It's not. It's not.

"Why didn't you fight back?!"

He barely knows Pomni. Why would he care if she abstracted?

"Oh, here we go. Here we go! Because I didn't fight back, that means I secretly care about you?!"

If anything, it would make this hellhole a little less suffocating, having one fewer character around.

Would it really, his thoughts croon. The voice, though familiar, isn't his own.

He can almost see them now. Their lopsided smile, the amused crinkle of their eyes.

Something twists in his chest.

A hook, those damned talons.

"I'm just a misunderstood little chicken fetus in an egg that needs to be cracked open."

Jax breathes.

In, out.

In, out.

"Well, I am NOT!"

The NPCs are talking still. Voices faint, hushed, swapping words back and forth, back and forth, to each other as Caine continues his pitiful attempt at feeling good about himself.

What the hell do they have to talk about? They're NPCs. Code. Not real.

Not real.

"I do not care about you, or ANYONE ELSE in this circus in the slightest! End of story!"

Up, down.

Up, down.

His leg bounces, again and again and again.

Up, down.

Up, down.

(Mom always hated it when he did that.)

"You are my playthings, and I get joy out of making you SUFFER. I'm the one who causes pain for FUN!"

"If I led you on, it was just to make this part hurt you more."

The fucking talons.

He bolts from his seat, needing to just get away from it all, running from his problems like the scared little bunny he is.

He needs to get away from this light that continues to stab into his brain. Away from Caine's booming voice that continues to spew bullshit like any of this fucking matters. Away from the crowd that surrounds him, making him feel that familiar sense of being trapped, confined, unable to escape (and that's so stupid because he's stuck here, he's never been able to escape, he's always been trapped, even before--)

The moment he passes through the doors of the theater he's running, and he doesn't know where to go because he's stuck. But he just needs to run. Just needs to get away. Even if Caine won't let him leave this map, leave this game, Jax must still be able to get some level of freedom. He needs it, otherwise how the hell is he supposed to breathe?

There is a bathroom (why is there a bathroom? They aren't real. Nobody here needs to—) and he dives straight for it, grabbing hold of the sink like it's a lifeline, allowing him to stop in front of a mirror as he switches the faucet on.

He just needs to hear something. Anything. Anything other than the racing pounding in his not-at-all-real chest. Anything other than the grating sound of Caine's still-too-loud voice and the stabbing silence from Pomni and the clawing noise of those talons.

He tries to focus on the water, reminding him of that little waterfall in that room he used to spend far too much time in.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

Why? He doesn't need to breathe. Nobody needs to breathe here. They aren't real here. They aren't real. They aren't real.

(Ringing. Ringing. Why can't he hear the water anymore?)

He's not real.

He's just an archetype. A caricature. A cartoon character. He's the Funny One. The bully. The villain.

The bad example.

The lost cause.

The one to stay away from, because he just drags others down with him.

He's just a drain on those around him.

(He always has been.)

"Ah! I-I-I know exactly what you're doing with Pomni, and it'll never work!"

"...Huh?"

Ragatha's expression, twisting with confusion.

The gun's weight, light as a feather.

(A ghost, looming over his shoulder.)

"You know, getting close with Pomni... to corrupt her?"

The ghost cackles, loud and long.

Jax chokes on a breath.

“You’re nothing but a virus. Poison."

Poison. Flooding through Jax's veins. Only, he doesn't have veins. Not in this body. Not anymore. Not in years. But it floods. It floods, and it burns.

Like lava. Like acid.

Licorice hair swims in his memories, blurring with green. Ragatha's form, baffled, hunched, uncertain, flickering as though playing through one of those old timey projectors; wide eyes fading into narrowed ones, wobbly frown fading into a deeply etched scowl—foreign, on such what's usually such a happy, mischievous face.

Ribbit's glower is sharp, accusing, the red of their cheeks curled. Warped. They're across from him, across the small pond with the small waterfall in their large, messy room. He can hear it, the water—rushing, rushing, rushing. Can still see the unmade bed where the two of them would lounge, the pillows strewn across the floor from countless pillow fights, the beanbags stacked in the far corner that they'd try to smother each other with, screeching and giggling like children.

Their arms squeeze their chest. A strange mimicry of a hug.

(Or maybe a shield.)

Their body shakes. Trembles. A fact that would normally have Jax closing the gap, speaking softly, hands outstretched but not touching, not ever, not until they were willing, only—

Tense. Ribbit has been so tense recently. Quiet, where they'd be loud, cracking dumb puns with every breath, their croaking laughter an ever-present, constant companion. Wary, where they'd be reckless, diving headfirst into each adventure no matter what "danger" Caine cooked up, Jax right on their heels.

Just— off.

He's not the only one who's noticed. Not the only one who's concerned.

Even Kinger mentioned it. Kinger.

And Jax isn't the best at comfort. He never has been, never will be.

But he thought— he thought—

(He never expected this.)

“You’re nothing but a virus. Poison."

No hesitance. No doubt. The belief drips from each syllable, soaks into each word like blood into cloth.

Ribbit's pupils are small. Mere pinpricks. Accusatory, confident, as they burn into Jax.

"And I won’t let you corrupt me anymore."

Water.

Focus on the water.

Don't focus on the tightness in his chest, on the fire where his lungs would be. Don't focus on the closing of his non-existent esophagus, smaller and smaller with each passing beat.

Don't. Don't. Don't.

Ribbit is in front of him now. Directly. The space between them all but gone.

Ringing. Something is ringing.

An alarm, a siren.

A finger jabs at his ribs.

And his ribs. His ribs are constricting. Cracking. Splintering. Biting into the pulpy, false flesh of his chest.

“Are you even real?

Ribbit's teeth are bared, the weight of their words heavy. Too heavy.

Too much.

“Of course I’m real-

No. He's not.

(Was he ever?)

((Or was this always who he was? Always who he was meant to be?))

Jax forces in another breath. Another. Another.

It's not enough. It's not enough. He can't— He can't—

His chest is so tight. The ringing is so loud. He—

He—

“Are you? Or were you just programmed to say that?"

Could—

Was—

Was Ribbit right?

Jax forces in another breath. Another. Another.

How much easier would it be, if he was? How much easier would it be, if Jax— if he was just one more NPC. One more of Caine's countless, stupid creations made to make him feel better about himself.

Is that what he wants?

What has being a person— being human ever done for him? It's suffocating. Entrapping. Like shackles around his ankles, chains around his wrists—a collar around his throat, tugging more and more and more and more with each wrong move.

He never made the right one.

Does he want that? Does he want to just— to just be a piece of the code, a cog in the constantly churning machine?

(Is it even his choice anymore?)

“I’m not working with Caine!"

The very notion was ridiculous. Seemingly random. And Jax can't help but wonder where Ribbit even got that from. Is that what this has been about? Why would Jax be working with Caine?

(Why can't he just be working for Caine? Be part of the machine.)

Have they somehow forgotten all the fun they've had together? The fact that Ribbit was the only person Jax ever felt like he could be himself with? The quiet moments when they holed up in Ribbit's room, the frog's webbed fingers often ending up fidgeting with Jax's cartoonishly long ears. How could Jax be working with Caine and using Ribbit for some agenda? The only agenda they ever had was their own!

It was just them. Him and Ribbit. Two doors in the same bare, antiseptic hallway. Two kids turned teens turned barely young adults who were stuck in this shitty situation together, just trying to make the best out of it. To finally have freedom from things they were never able to be free from in their human lives.

“Doesn’t matter, does it?"

Of course it matters. How could it not? How could they just say that like everything they've done together meant nothing?

"You’re either an NPC programmed by Caine to make me want to stay here, or you’re some miserable person who actually likes being here because there is nothing left for him outside of the circus and you’re fine dragging other people down with you."

An NPC… a miserable person. Jax knows which one of those is true (at least… he thinks he knows which one of them is true) but why does that seem so much worse? If he was just programming then that would mean he has a purpose, has coding. If he was just programming then this wouldn't hurt so much.

If he was just programming then he wouldn't even care about everything being said to him right now. He wouldn't fear what the truth was. The idea of inadvertently hurting people wouldn't be so terrifying. It would just be the truth. What he was made to do.

("And then you just act like you never do anything wrong and everybody loves you, when in reality, you just f—k everything up for everyone else!")

If he ruined people's lives, wouldn't it be better if he was doing it intentionally? His end goal. Not just some glitch in the system or error in his coding. Not just a fuck up but his actual intended purpose by some "higher power."

"You need toys to play with after all." And Ribbit just gets closer, uncharacteristically cold eyes seeming to just pierce through him, saying every word with complete conviction.

Knowing more about Jax than Jax knows about himself.

(Which really, what does Jax even know?)

"You aren’t real. You never were." And they would know because Ribbit actually knew who Jax was before. Just the pathetic little— "You’re just another thing holding us captive. Making us miserable. So stop pretending."

And they're right. Because all Jax has ever done was pretend. To them, his parents, himself. It's always pretend. Always a show. Always an act to be what people need him to be. A way to hide what he really is: nothing. A mindless pet.

(But no. He's not pretending anymore. He's not pretending when he makes Gangle cry or he throws words at Ragatha that he knows stab into her like needles. He's not pretending. He doesn't need them to like him. He doesn't care if they do. It's better if they don't.)

(He's not pretending when he tells Pomni that everyone in the circus is nothing but his playthings, his toys. That's who he is. All he's able to be. Ribbit saw it back then, and everyone can see it now.)

(Everyone except Pomni— but he fixed that. He showed her the truth. Made it clear to her there is nothing behind the mask. Just a sadist who hurts people for fun. Because that's all he's ever done.)

His fake heart pounds.

Again. Again. Threatening to burst out in a spray of fluff and blood.

(Beeping, slicing through the quiet.)

(A hand, squeezing too tight too tight.)

The air whistles between his teeth.

A long, deep breath. Eyes slamming shut.

(She can insist, can argue, can bite all she likes. It wouldn't change a thing.)

((Wouldn't change him.))

(((They already tried that, after all.)))

((((Look where it got him.))))

Jax deflates, the breath leaving him in a shaking exhale.

(A puppet with cut strings.)

His eyelids flutter.

There is a reflection he can see in the water, in the pond. The revulsion and betrayal and hatred shining through Ribbit's expression. The lack of any softness or warmth in their eyes. Seeing their face doesn't make Jax feel at home. It just makes him realize he's always been imprisoned.

The green skin becomes a pale peach color, red licorice strands of hair popping out of their head, shiny features becoming more plush and doll-like.

And anger. Well-deserved anger that far exceeds simple exasperation. Disappointment. Because for some reason for a long time she seemed to hope there was something more to Jax. A hope that he eventually crushed, her leaving him like the lost cause he is when it became clear that the poison inside of him lacked any antidote. Now all she could do was stop him from infecting anyone else.

But the tiniest bit of hope returns as the doll's mismatched eyes turn into the large, red-and-blue pinwheels of a certain jester. A pleading look on her face. Desperate to be right. Then the hope in her eyes flickers out, now empty of everything except pain and betrayal.

And horror. A better option than the previous joy and hope on her face, because horror means that he did something right. He's playing his part well. Horror means success. Horror means he won.

But then why, why does it feel so much like failure? Like those damn talons digging into his shoulders. Into his chest and neck and mind. Drawing out the poisonous blood that he harbors inside. Only giving more proof of what he is.

The collage of cartoonish faces shift into something more real. A face that doesn't really compute in his mind, unable to actually visualize, but it's there all the same. It's real and it's disappointed. It's disgusted.

All the love this person claimed to have for him is gone. Because it was never about them loving him, but who they expected him to be. Who they wanted her to be. There's that regret that they've wasted all this time and money and care on them. The person who was supposed to be the perfect child, the perfect daughter, but kept falling short. No matter what he did. No matter how much he tried.

The talons dig, dig, dig deeper, cutting through muscle and piercing into his core which is nothing but empty and barren.

“I’m not going to let you ruin my life just because you don't have one."

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

(How? How is he supposed to breathe when he's bleeding out so much? How are his not-real lungs supposed to work when all his not-real blood is flooding away from them?)

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

It's not real.

They're not real.

He's not real.

Not real things don't have breakdowns in bathrooms.

His vision starts to clear, and all he sees as he looks back into the mirror is a pathetic mess, an empty shell, lifeless bits of code devoid of purpose.

"God, you look stupid."

The sound makes him feel sick.

The voice sounds foreign to his ears, digging into his chest. It's nauseating and wrong. Too close yet too far away. And it's hard to even process that it's coming from himself. The fact that it is makes Jax want to throw up. Does his voice always sound like that?

Is it even his voice?

Or is it someone else's?

Is it theirs?

The sudden noise of a toilet flushing breaks through, and with it comes dread. Is someone else in here? Did he seriously not notice? Did they hear anything? Is he going to have to answer any dumb questions?

The fact that someone may have heard him like that. The fact that someone could see him so bare and naked— Jax is such an idiot. Who has a breakdown in a public bathroom? Who is he? Gangle?!

(Why the hell is someone even in the bathroom?!)

Jax looks towards the stall in question, preparing to snap if the interrupter dare to ask any questions. He's pissed. Not just at whatever moron decided to use the bathroom, but himself.

The stall door opens, and fucking Disappearing Guy exits it, wearing his stupid little hat and starting to say something before vanishing to wherever the hell he goes. And Jax still thinks the fact Caine made this guy exist at all is so dumb. Is this seriously his attempt at being funny? Who wants a guy who can't even get through saying a single word before vanishing like all those fathers who went to the store to get milk?

Jax is very aware he lucked out. It's all he can be aware of, in that moment. Anyone could've walked in. Anyone still can.

The possibility coils in his stomach. Like a snake—a python, prey trapped between its scaly body, curling closer and closer and closer to itself until its meal stops screeching, stops struggling, going limp with one last, shuddering breath.

No one would come after him. He's not stupid enough to believe that. Zooble hates him; Gangle is Gangle; Kinger probably doesn't even remember his own name half the time, much less Jax's; Ragatha has practically made a sport in avoiding him, and Pomni—

Pomni's no doubt told them everything, has no doubt spilled every little detail of their argument, their fight. Maybe she's out there right now, laughing, entertaining everyone in the middle of Caine's stupid, boring show with tales of just how weak he really is.

No. No, Pomni wouldn't do that. She's nice like that. Awkward to an almost painful degree on her best days. And today was definitely not one of her best days.

(And it was for you?)

Jax swallows, the lump at the base of his throat as painful as it is imaginary.

It doesn't matter. Not really. Not in the end. Pomni blabs, Pomni doesn't blab, it doesn't change the fact that if anyone walked in, it wouldn't be for him.

But if he left, so could any of them.

If he ended up here, so could any of them.

It's this—this thought, this chance, this realization—that has Jax breathing in deep, fingers biting into the rim of the sink. He holds it for a second.

Two.

Three.

Eyes shut. Hard enough to hurt.

Four.

Five.

And he releases. A slow, wheezing exhale as he restitches the scar, red and gushing and raw; whistling through his teeth as he soaks up the spurting blood, shoving it down, down, down—

—until Jax steps back, eyes peeling open.

His reflection stares back. This time, though, with a smile that stretches his entire face, ear to ear if his ears weren't at the top of his head.

For a beat, it quivers.

A small thing. Slight.

Jax stretches it farther, barely noticing the burn in his fake cheeks. And he turns, right on his heel, slipping into the hall with long, loose strides.

He takes his time, returning to the theater. What is there to miss, after all? More of Caine's attempts at sucking his own dick? Does he even know what a dick is? From the way he reacted to Zooble's question earlier, it sure as shit doesn't seem like so.

Either way, not something he's keen on.

Jax makes it there eventually, though, slipping through the doors, ambling down the aisle. He plops into his seat with a hum, non-existent lips pulled taut. And speaking of— the old pair of dentures is still going, still yammering about the honorable mentions, or whatever the fuck.

How predictable. How pathetic.

Jax leans back, as far back as he can, crossing one leg over the other, arms sprawled loosely—carelessly—on either side of the chair.

(Up, down, his knee bounces.)

He stares ahead. Past the rows of NPCs before him. Past Caine, who finally seems to be getting to the point of this whole shitshow. Not that Jax is paying him any attention. Why would he? He didn't ask to be here.

(Didn't ask to be alive, to be—)

He slams the door on the thought. Twists the lock, barricading it with chairs, and couches, and everything in between.

No. None of that.

He's fine.

(Up, down, his knee bounces.)

Totally. Fine.

Chapter Text

If you were to somehow, someway, get your hands on a dictionary—

(Which is kind of impossible, considering everything in the circus is chaotic and fun, and dictionaries are dull and boring to the degree that only old people or socially awkward fanfic writers eager to torture their favorite character ever crack them open.)

—and flipped the pages until you found yourself at the word fine—

(Or, y'know, searched it up in the search bar because online dictionaries are a thing apparently, and who actually reads books anymore? Nerds and losers—that's who!)

—then you would see, without fail, Jax's picture right underneath.

(Did dictionaries have pictures? Is that a thing they do? He's never touched one in his life, online or physical, because he's not a nerd, loser, old, or a socially awkward fanfic writer—he's not socially awkward at all, in fact!—but they probably have pictures, right?)

(Doesn't matter.)

It would be there, is the point.

Him. Jax. In all his fluffy, purple glory.

But Jax, someone without a single brain cell might ask, why would your picture be in the dictionary?

And in that case, he would stuff their pillow with centipedes—or spiders, he's not picky—because, damn, that's a real stupid question. And real stupid questions deserve to be punished.

Then, once the person without a single brain cell stopped screaming—willingly or unwillingly, 'cause he is not above ducktaping mouths shut if it goes on for too long—he would smile, pat them on the head, punch them, maybe stick them in one of those human-sized blenders Caine for some reason has hanging around in one of the many, many evershifting rooms in the circus—which: why does Caine even have blenders? What does he even need to use those for? (Especially human-sized ones?) Dude only eats when he's trying to fake being human in order to "bond" with them—

(But then proceeds to never blink, thus defeating the whole purpose of faking in the first place.)

—and Jax doesn't think he's ever seen him drink anything. Unless he has. In that case, fair enough. But still, what do AI even drink?

Probably something gross. And weird. And gross.

Jax, braincell-less person would cry, spinning around in one of the aforementioned blenders of unknown origin, what are you getting at, here?

To which he would say: shut the f—ck up, I'm monologing.

Without the f—ck because he's more mature than that.

(Zooble.)

But then, cranking up the setting on the blender, and relishing in the muffled shrieking of the somehow more braincell-less person—all that head trauma has to have some impact, after all (not that much would be lost)—he would sigh. Indulgently. Because honestly, he should be given an award for his patience.

And he would say, even more indulgently (because who is anyone to demand an explanation out of him?): not just in the dictionary. Under the word fine. Specifically fine.

Because.

After alllllllll~

Jax is fine.

Completely. Utterly.

He's fine. Fantastic. In fact, you should throw his picture under the definition for the word fantastic as well. And while you're at it, the word great.

Because Jax is fantastic.

Jax is great.

He is the most great. The absolute greatest.

Yeah, sure, he ran straight to his room following the— what were they called?

Whatever. Caine's dick sucking awards.

And yeah, sure, he didn't say a word to anybody before doing so.

What would he say to them, after all? They're all so boring.

And maybe, in doing so, he slammed the door hard enough to shake the walls.

But who cares? Everyone does that at one point or another.

And yeah, sure, he hasn't left his bed since then.

But he's fine.

Fantastic. Great.

Literally no one ever has been more great than he is right now.

"DAISY, DAISY, GIVE ME YOUR ANSWER DO!"

Never. Been. More. Great.

"I'M HALF CRAZY!"

Because Jax is fine.

"ALL FOR THE LOVE OF YOU!"

Fine.

Totally. Fine.

"IT WON'T BE A STYLISH MARRIAGE!"

How does Caine get louder?

"I CAN'T AFFORD A CARRIAGE!"

Like, seriously—if this were a fanfiction written by sleep-deprived college students being spam texted by their parents about financial aid and trying to avoid thinking about said financial aid because one of them has an upcoming biology exam and they're stressed enough, Caine's dialogue would be in all caps.

Guaranteed.

"BUT YOU'LL LOOK SWEET!"

It shouldn't be possible for him to get any louder.

Not that it matters, of course.

"UPON THE SEAT!"

Jax doesn't care. Jax is fine.

"OF A BICYCLE BUILT—"

Jax is fine.

"—FOR TWOOOOO!"

He would be better if he could shove Caine into one of his stupid fucking blenders.

"—AND THEN THE SUPER EVIL GIANT SQUIRRELS KIDNAPPED ZOOBLE! ISN'T THAT FUNNY, JAX? THEY CARTED THEM OFF TO THEIR SUPER EVIL SQUIRREL LAIR TO COOK THEM INTO A DELICIOUS ZOOBLE PIE! YUM! YOU LOVE PIE—DON'T YOU JAX?"

Jax's elementary school once had a pi day. Something stupid for math. It was one of the rare instances he was actually able to attend, though, before his parents decided homeschooling was better for him. And when all the pie was carted in—pumpkin, apple, blueberry, the likes—little Jax, who got dessert maybe once a month at best, went ham.

And threw up all over his father the second he got home.

Jax hates pie.

"POMNI ALMOST DIDN'T MAKE IT IN TIME! THE FOUR OF THEM WERE CROSSING A BRIDGE OVER THE INFINITE RAVINE WHEN RAGATHA GOT STRUCK BY LIGHTNING. OUCH. AND THEN SHE KNOCKED POMNI INTO THE INFINITE RAVINE! HOW VIOLENT! HOW ENTERTAINING! RIGHT, JAX?"

Jax whines into his pillow.

"JAX? JAAAAAAAAAX! DON'T YOU WANT TO SEE THE PICTURES? I HAVE PICTURES! VIDEOS TOO! ZOOBLE LOOKED SO FUNNY, JAX! THEY WERE SO MAD!"

His bedroom sucks. Like, balls.

"OH! DO YOU WANT TO SEE THE PICTURES OF RAGATHA TANGLED IN GANGLE! THEY ROLLED DOWN A HILL, JAX! THEY WERE SO UNCOMFORTABLE, JAX!"

It does provide him with an absurd amount of pillows, though, a fact Jax takes full advantage of, not removing his face—eyes closed, ears pinned to the back of his head—from where its buried in one pillow as he feels around blindly, groping the mattress in search of a second.

"ZOOBLE LOST THEIR BODY AT ONE POINT, JAX! KINGER HAD TO CARRY THEIR HEAD AROUND! AND THEN KINGER GOT STUCK IN A TREE TRUNK, JAX! WHICH BURST INTO FLAMES!"

Gloved fingers come into contact with something plush. Soft.

"ISN'T THAT AWESOME, JAX? YOU LIKE FIRE—DON'T YOU JAX?"

Plush. Soft.

Jax yanks it over his head, presses it into his ears.

"THERE WAS SO MUCH FIRE, JAX! THE SQUIRRELS ALL BURNED ALIVE, JAX! THEY WERE SCREAMING SO LOUD! AND THEN RAGATHA ACCIDENTALLY KNOCKED ONE INTO RADIOACTIVE ACID! AND IT BURST BACK OUT AS A FLAMING ZOMBIE SQUIRREL!"

Jax presses down harder.

"A SUPER EVIL FLAMING ZOMBIE SQUIRREL, JAX!"

(Stupid ears. Stupid rabbit hearing.)

"IT WENT AROUND EATING THE OTHER SUPER EVIL SQUIRRELS, JAX! THERE WAS STRAWBERRY JAM EVERYWHERE! ONE SUPER EVIL SQUIRREL GOT THEIR EARS RIPPED OFF! AND ONE OF THEIR LEGS!"

What are the chances of a dentist ending up in the circus?

Specifically one of the ones who yanked teeth out of your mouth while you screamed and cried.

"AND THEN THE SUPER EVIL ZOMBIE SQUIRRELS CHASED EVERYONE BACK TO THE INFINITE RAVINE! WHICH ZOOBLE NEARLY FELL INTO! GANGLE SAVED THEM, THOUGH—ISN'T THAT ANNOYING, JAX?"

It's a twisted sort of irony.

One he's aware of vaguely, distantly, far in the back corners of his mind—that Caine is the only one to have checked on him, the only one who is still checking on him.

Not out of any real concern, obviously. Jax isn't an idiot. The walking cavity is a desperate, insecure, attention seeking whore. To the highest degree. More of a mess than even Gangle, half the time, with a pride almost as fragile as any US politician.

If Zooble never wanting to attend his adventures bruised the aforementioned ego, Jax—who was among one of the only people to ever look forward to the stupid things—suddenly skipping out on them has to be like a knife to that ego, cutting it open for every insecurity and more to come pouring through.

Jax has skipped out on three.

Three adventures. One for each day since he and Po—

Three adventures.

One for each day.

…

…

…

Because Jax hasn't left his room in three days.

…

…

…

Or his bed.

…

…

…

That's how great he is!

Whoever decided that oversleeping—bedrotting, whatever you wanna call it—is a symptom of a depression needs to get their head checked. Or their licenses revoked.

(Those people had licenses right?)

If they do, they should get revoked.

Staying in bed is awesome!

Never leaving your room?

So peaceful!

No whining, no complaining, no Jax, you can't do that it's illegal nevermind the fact none of it was ever real. No Jax, put the knife down, that's murder, nevermind the fact none of them were alive, or Jax, stop, that's cannibalism even when they were never human.

No stupid, pointless adventures with stupid, pointless tasks and stupid, pointless NPCs with stupid, pointless stories.

Nope! Nada! Zilch!

Just him.

In his room.

Alone.

With his thoughts.

So fun! So great!

No one has come to check on him—unless you count the dentures outside his door right now.

Which is fine. Jax doesn't care.

He doesn't even want them to. Check on him, that is. Why would he? They're all so boring. So gross and emotional and just…

Bleh.

They probably don't even want him to leave. Probably hope he never does.

Screw them. They can all splatter in a blender, for all Jax cares. Or in the infinite cliff, or whatever Caine called it. If Jax doesn't leave, it's because he doesn't want to. He doesn't care about what they want.

Not at all.

"I didn't think you cared about what other people like."

"I just… no, yeah, you're right. I don't."

And speaking of—

Wouldn't you know! When all is said and done, Jax was right about Ragatha.

I care about you, she'd insist.

I'm here for you, she'd simper.

I want to help you, she'd beg.

What a fakey faker.

(It doesn't hurt. Not in the slightest.)

His eyes are already shut. Firmly. Painfully.

(Why would it?)

He squeezes them tighter.

(He knew all along, after all.)

Jax rolls, back to the door, head still sandwiched firmly between two pillows.

(All along.)

Beneath him, the mattress shifts—always so soft, so bouncy. Nothing like the firm, hard beds of the hospital.

Sort of like a marshmallow.

(Ribbit always hated it. Insisted it was too soft, that it felt like they were being drowned in fluff and fabric every time they so much as sat down. Normally, Jax would agree—and then they would migrate to Ribbit's den, Ribbit's bed. Soft, but not too soft.)

(He doesn't think he'd mind that, anymore.)

(Just. Sinking into the warmth. Never to resurface.)

(That'd be nice.)

Jax draws his knees to his chest. A slow, staggering movement. As though boulders were weighing each one down.

Once more, the mattress shifts.

He turns his head. Presses it into the silky faux pillowcase below (because Caine couldn't be half assed to do actual laundry. Everything stayed clean. Squeaky clean. Not a hint of dirt, or goo, or water, or—)

(Or—)

(So what need was there for pillowcases? For sheets?)

Jax certainly isn't complaining.

It makes it that much more comfortable.

(Makes it that much easier to avoid moving, to avoid looking around, to avoid catching his own eye in his mirror-lined walls.)

(God. He hates those fucking mirrors.)

But it isn't like he has other options. The bedrooms are the only places Caine can't enter—not when the doors are closed—and he'd sooner throw himself in front of a moving truck lined with spikes—even if it wouldn't kill him, it would hurt—than hide out in anyone else's. As if they wouldn't throw him out immediately anyway.

(As if the only room he ever liked wasn't—)

Anyways. It doesn't matter, in the end.

He's here. In his room. And he's not leaving.

Not ever.

Not for anything.

Because he's fine.

Tired—sure. He's exhausted. A fatigue has settled deep into his non-existent bones, and the idea of scrounging up the energy to get up, to leave, to print a smile onto his face and torture Gangle or torment Ragatha or annoy Zooble or wreck havoc on the poor unsuspecting NPCs Caine snaps into being for their collective entertainments (even if he's the only one who takes advantage of the fact), all those things that, any other day, spark endless amounts of joy—

—only makes the exhaustion burrow deeper.

Somewhere, locked under endless layers of fog—a dim, flickering flame, a half-formed thought—Jax knows exactly where this is leading. Can realize the similarities, can connect the dots and draw parallels with eerie, sickening accuracy.

(Ribbit growing quieter, snappier.)

(Kaufmo hiding in his room, for hours on end.)

He can't bring himself to care.

What's the point of caring anyway?

Nothing is real.

Not the circus. Not Caine. Not Bubble.

Not Ragatha. Not Kinger.

Not Gangle, or Zooble, or P—

Jax swallows.

Not even him.

Not anymore.

How did he do it before? How did he ever drag himself from this so-soft, too-soft bed every (false) morning? How did he find it in him to go along with adventures that didn't matter, never mattered, except to an egotistical pair of teeth? How did he ever scrounge up any joy during them? How did he even care about them? Did he ever care?

It all feels so distant now. Like he's viewing someone else's memories.

(Like bare white walls and long, winding hallways. Like a too-hard bed, and thin blankets scratching his skin. Like a beeping heart monitor, and the murmur of argument just outside his door. Like faceless nurses, and empty smiles. Like a shadow looming above, and a breath hot against his ear—)

The pillow atop his head wobbles, then flops, falling someplace unknown as Jax eases his grip. He doesn't bother catching it. It doesn't do a damn thing, anyway. He tugs at the covers, instead. They've been caught, twisted beneath him for… a while, but he pulls them up, up, up, up and over his shoulders.

Over his head.

(You look like a burrito, Ribbit would have shrieked, bright and gleeful. Did shriek, whenever Jax pulled similar in the past.)

(And would then immediately join him in his burrito endeavors, snatching a blanket from their room, or Ragatha's, or Kaufmo's, or Kinger's.)

The covers are heavy. Warm, in what might as well be an icebox of a room.

(Ribbit isn't here now, though.)

(Wouldn't ever be again.)

Jax hardly feels it.

His eyes ache under his eyelids. He breathes a shuddering breath, almost able to smell the antiseptic, almost able to hear the beeping, almost able to feel his parents' eyes, boring into his back.

But he can't.

The circus doesn't smell like much of anything, and his room is quiet. No beeping. No distant conversation. Nothing but—

"WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU ALL SHOULD GO NEXT TIME, JAX?"

—him.

"YOU LEFT QUITE A FEW SUGGESTIONS IN THE BOX! ZOOBLE AS A PIÑATA SOUNDS FUN, DOESN'T IT JAX?"

(He's getting desperate, isn't he?)

Jax uses what little energy he has to curl deeper into his bed, making his burrito even tighter, trying his hardest to block out the incessant prattling of the chattering orthodontic appliance.

Can't he just shut the hell up?

Acid dissolves bone, right? Would that work on teeth? Or more specifically, an oversized dental plate? Didn't Caine mention something about acid? Was there some Jax could use? Just shove it down Caine's non-existent throat. Or maybe feed it to Bubble, since the two apparently share a tongue.

Wait… if they share a tongue, does that mean if Jax cut Bubble's tongue off, then Caine wouldn't have one anymore? Could Jax theoretically mute Caine like that?

If so, he deserves to be offered the Nobel Peace Prize, though he wouldn't accept simply because it has the word "peace" in the title (also it's fun to see people grovel.) Or… or maybe he would just accept it simply so he could shove it up someone's ass, plunging it so deep into that loser that it rips a hole in their abdomen, frightening the public and making it so the word "peace" is forever banned.

What Jax wouldn't give to shove something up Caine's ass (does he even have one? He does wear pants) right now. Wait… maybe he should time travel, win the Nobel Peace Prize for some nobely-peacey bullshit, travel back to this exact moment, and shove that thing so far into Caine it comes right up his mouth.

Any minute now, his future self will appear and…

…

Okay, you know what, screw his future self. Stupid fucking traitor. Wins a Nobel Peace Prize and then just dumps present Jax. Like present Jax isn't the reason he's even here. Dumb little nerd. Loser probably likes anime.

The voice drones on and on and on and on. And Jax wishes more with each moment that, if not tearing off Bubble-and-Caine's tongue or murdering his future-self, he could just tear these damn ears off his own head. He swears voices didn't use to be this loud before he joined the circus. If this is some "rabbity-trait" on behalf of his avatar, then screw it.

Honestly, screw anything loud regardless. Shouldn't things know not to have the audacity to make noise? If he could call a nuclear air strike on all noise-making things, he would.

(Wasn't there some kid he knew way back that was deaf? Why couldn't that just be him? If it was then he wouldn't have to deal with—)

The noise stops.

Finally.

For a moment Jax wonders if his wish had somehow been granted, if he's been blessed to never have to hear another damn sound again. The groan of his bed as he moves proves otherwise though. The only reason things are silent is because Caine, the resident noisemaker, has left, having given up on trying to get Jax out of his room.

Given up.

Again.

Like everyone does.

(As they should. As Jax prefers. Because they're just annoying. He doesn't need them. Life would be so much easier if he just never had to hear them again.)

He prefers it like this. Just being alone.

In the dark.

Well- mostly in the dark. Since the circus can't even give him the damn privilege of being able to immerse himself in darkness. Stupid fucking rabbit senses make it so he can see pretty well in places with relatively low lighting, which is great for pranks or sneaking around, but less so for when he needs to put the world around him on mute.

(If it was completely dark, that would be another story. Even rabbits apparently can't see in pitch darkness. But the Annoying Digital Circus rarely offers that chance (unless Caine is attempting horror), and even in his room, light sneaks through the crack in his door, unable to be covered no matter how many times Jax has stuffed blankets under it in the past. No matter how many times Jax complained about it to Caine. The light was pervasive and unwelcome, just like a certain ringmaster.)

From the few glances Jax has gotten of it, one of the only places that one could regularly expect to find complete darkness would be in the—

The basement.

It's dark in the basement.

Ribbit always hated the dark.

Well… whatever. If Ribbit hated the dark so much they shouldn't have gotten themselves trapped down there. Who is scared of the dark anyways? That's for little kids!

And— and besides! Ribbit being scared of the dark should be neither here nor there, because the people down there— the abstractions down there (nobody here is a person, and certainly not the things down there)— aren't aware. They're just—

They're just—

They aren't aware… right?

(He hopes Ribbit isn't aware. He doesn't want them to be scared.)

And honestly, if that's the case: good for them! In Jax's professional (he's a professional in everything) opinion, it would be nice to not be aware. To not have to think. To not have to feel. To not remember.

He doesn't want to remember.

He doesn't want to imagine the sound of rushing water.

He doesn't want to remember the earthy shades of the room that always felt more like a home than his own (both in the circus and as a child.)

He doesn't want to remember the feeling of the plush pillows beneath him, the feeling of his ears getting gently pulled with and twisted (but never too far, never painfully) by the body that lay besides him.

Doesn't want to remember the feeling of bliss that came with it, the way his body just relaxed with each careful tug and stroke. The way his teeth would chatter in response.

Doesn't want to remember the way that his body accepted Ribbit's touch, even when it still tensed and buzzed when anyone else initiated contact with him. Because it was different. It was Ribbit, and Ribbit would never hurt him. (Don't think about the jabbing finger in his chest, the disgusted shove, don't think about—)

Doesn't want to remember the feeling of just being able to exist. Of two teens just unwinding after having fun in the chaotic new world they had both found themselves in, not yet understanding the full weight of their situation.

(The idiots—)

Jax doesn't want to remember—

"So like, abstraction."

(But Jax can still remember it. Clear as day. Forever imprinted in his mind because a couple years later, he would look back on the conversation and despise himself for it.)

They'd been lying in Ribbit's room, the place a mess after their recent chaos, laughing about the latest adventure, which involved Ragatha at one point accidentally running into a support beam that started a domino effect, leading to an entire marketplace in tatters.

Ribbit's hands were playing with Jax's left ear, rolling it between their webbed fingers (for some reason they seemed to always like his left ear more. It was "softer", whatever the heck that meant.)

"…what about it?"

The topic change was abrupt, although Ribbit continued to just play with Jax's ear as if nothing they said were out of the norm. As if this sudden shift in conversation was like when they suddenly went on to their rambles about Marvel comics and how the recent (or at least…they were recent when they got to the circus) movies did not encapsulate the full breadth of Tony Stark's character (how? there has only been two movies about him—), rather than about… something that basically just equates to death here.

At the time, it wasn't something Jax had given a ton of thought to. Why would he have? Abstraction was just a concept to him. A horror story he'd heard about from some of the older members of the circus (mostly Ragatha in hushed whispers), but never witnessed. Abstraction was, in a lot of ways, abstract (ha!) to him.

It wasn't something he liked to think about.

It wasn't something he wanted to think about.

(And wasn't young Jax just stupid? Who was he to avoid thinking about the inevitable? To not ponder the very thing that loomed above them all? To act as if the rules didn't apply to him?)

"What do you think that's like?"

(Ribbit was smarter though, Ribbit was always smarter. Ribbit actually thought about these things.)

"Geez." Jax says with a snort (because he was stupid, so stupid.) "Way to kill the mood, Ribbs."

(Using humor to avoid talking about the important topics, because that's all he ever did. All he ever still does.)

"I'm serious, Jax." And Ribbit finally let go of his ear to roll over, now facing him, an oddly serious expression on their face, eyes meeting Jax's own. "What happens?"

How the hell was he supposed to know?

Recalling what he'd heard from the others, from Ragatha when he asked her to go in more depth about it when she first brought it up, from Kaufmo's whispers as he recalled an old friend, from Kinger's rare (although not as rare as they would later be) moments of sanity when he'd impart wisdom on them like some elder father figure.

"You become a ball of eyes. And… stuff?"

(And Jax wants to hit himself. Wants to throw himself into a blender. Wants to shove a Nobel Peace Prize up his own ass, because that's not it. Not even close.)

The idea of something with so many eyes made Jax fight back a shudder, nausea suddenly filling his stomach. So many eyes. So many pods. Holes. Bumps. Squishable. Poppable. Like an egg sac. Or—

"No, I mean— their minds. What do you think that's like for them?"

What's up with the sudden questions? How should he know?

"Murder. Violence." Jax says with a shrug, not fully knowing what how to answer. He doesn't know. The way Ragatha and Kaufmo seemed to describe it was like abstractions were people too far gone, lashing out and attacking the people around them. Not even Caine was able to save them (but did Caine even try?) and they were just sent to a basement where they couldn't hurt anyone. Abstraction was what everyone tried to avoid.

"What? So they just lose everything they were and become violent blobs? What happens to them, the person?"

Ribbit did sometimes like to have these big philosophical debates, throwing questions out there. Another way for them to create chaos, asking big questions that didn't have an absolute answer. And a lot of the time Jax would happily take part, but this…

"Well, I—" Jax didn't want to think about this. Why can't they go back to having fun? When did things get so heavy? "I don't know. What do you think?"

"I don't know either! Obviously. But like— do their minds just disappear? Do our bodies go brain dead?" Oh, god— "Do we just die? Are abstractions still aware, or are they just bits of code? Do the ones stuck in the basement know they're in there? Know what they've become?"

The amount of questions, the number of ideas and theories Ribbit just threw out causes Jax to roll over and sit up onto his elbows, relaxed mood now completely gone as he looks back at his companion, who appears to be in deep thought.

Scared to ask the question but—"…How much thought have you put into this?"

Ribbit's eyes lock back on to Jax's own as they take a moment, seeming to process Jax's question, before saying in voice that is trying so hard to be casual: "…a little."

Jax's eyes just narrow at his friend, because he does not believe that. Not even for a second.

The only thing he would believe less is if Ribbit said they were straight. Or if they admitted they had a crush on Ragatha. Or if they suddenly announced they no longer find Kinger a DILF.

There's a pause, Ribbit giving an amused scoff as if they can read Jax's mind. Although that's obviously not the case, because if it were they would be doubling down on this Kinger-Is-A-DILF stuff (doubling down like they wanted to double down on the chesspiece—), waxing poetry about the insane man's… assets (what assets? Dude doesn't even have arms!) and how they would 100% smash Kinger before Ragatha.

"…shut up."

Ribbit is the reason Caine got rid of sex.

Jax doesn't have any proof of this, but he knows it. Caine knew Ribbit was coming (although not coming, as Ribbit would say) and had to add all these damn filters. Because if Ribbit was left unchecked, the "child-friendly Amazing Digital Circus" would crash and burn the minute Ribbit caught sight of literally any man.

(And yes, this includes Caine.)

Wait— that's not what Ribbit was telling Jax to shut up about.

Shit-eating grin forming on Jax's face, he just tilts his head in the whole "I'm just an innocent bunny-wabbit" way. Because when is Jax ever anything but an innocent bunny-wabbit?

Never. Jax is the picture of innocence. If you looked up the word "innocence" in a dictionary, the smile Jax is making would be right below it (the people who wrote the dictionary would have had to pay good money for that though, because Jax doesn't go around giving out pictures for free.)

"I didn't say anything." Jax says, innocently.

And then Ribbit, the fiend, gives a light shove to the ever-innocent Jax.

"I can see it on your face. That dumb stupid grin." Rude. "You're a sh—t actor, you know that, right?"

Ruder.

(Jax would become a better actor though, a much better actor… or maybe it was just that nobody cared enough to look. (And good thing too, he doesn't want them to look.))

"Well, excuuuse me!" Jax says in mock-affront. "I'll have you know, I'm a fantastic actor! Bryan Cranston wishes he could be me."

The little look Ribbit gives him tells Jax that he will have to put a incisor (currency in the circus because Caine has a bit (a lot) of an ego issue) in the "Breaking Bad Reference Jar." Because for some reason Jax is banned from making Breaking Bad references (which, hey, free speech exists— oh wait, no it doesn't. Thanks Caine.)

"Dude, I clocked you from the moment I saw you in that d—n waiting room." Ribbit, the bitch, scoffs playfully, for some reason having a problem with Jax putting his acting skills on the same level as Emmy-award winner actor Bryan Cranston.

And that makes Jax pause, because yeah, no, Ribbit (or whatever their name was back when they were human) somehow had an even better understanding of just unhappy Jax was than Jax himself. Somehow caught the way his chest would feel like it would cave in whenever his overbearing, overly-critical parents would refer to him as their daughter. They knew Jax was a boy before Jax did. Ribbit was the first one to see him. Not who everyone wanted him to be.

There is a pause and then Ribbit tenses, as if realizing what they just said. The hospital was something they both rarely talked about, and who Jax was before and during his time there was something they talked about even less.

"I— No, not the point." Ribbit reaches a hand out to Jax, an apology for possibly having gone too far, and Jax takes it with his own gloved hand, knowing nothing cruel was meant by it. If it was said somewhere in a more public place, Jax would have a problem, but this was Ribbit's room. And Ribbit's room was safe (until it wasn't.) The topic is then shifted again, going away from the uncomfortable subject of Before to the uncomfortable subject looming over everyone in the present. "Seriously, what do you think happens? Have you really never thought about it?"

Ribbit relaxes against Jax as they ask the question, hand again going to Jax's left ear which they begin to again fiddle with.

The rabbitoid just gives a shrug, melting a bit as his ear continues to be played with.

He gets why animals like being pet.

(No, he doesn't. Getting pet is stupid. It's weak. It's pathetic. It's just one more sign of how this young version of Jax was too soft. If anyone tried to pet him now he would bite their hand off. If someone as much as suggested that Jax ever allowed himself to be pet, he would take those evil squirrels, feed them cocaine, and then release them on said individual.)

"I mean… a guess a little?" Jax says, humoring his friend with this discussion and lying down on their lap, even though… "Kind of a downer though, right?"

A pause, then…

"Yeah." An even longer pause. "Yeah, you're right."

Then there is just silence, Ribbit continuing to play with Jax's ears, now having upgraded to fiddling with both of them. They both just lie there for a minute, on Ribbit's bed, in their own little world.

Jax's teeth begin to chatter together, making a sound that almost sounds like a purr (though he would loath to ever admit it.) Anywhere else in the circus this noise would be the subject of embarrassment, Kaufmo no doubt making a joke about it or Ragatha, someone who apparently used to own actual rabbits, taking it as a sign Jax is content (which she would undoubtedly make a big deal out of.)

The rumble is quiet. But in a room with nothing but the sound of running water, it's noticeable.

Ribbit gives it no comment. Why would they? They've heard it dozens of times before.

(And Ribbit would be the only one to ever hear it. The only person Jax ever let himself get that weak with. Because after they're gone, he never makes the sound again (he doesn't even know if he still can. It's probably better if not— no, it's definitely better if not. Why would he ever need to make the noise? Why did he even make it before?))

Despite the sound coming from Jax, the silence isn't completely comfortable. Something lingers in the air, a topic unfinished. Words left unsaid.

Part of Jax would prefer to not even keep talking about this subject. He doesn't see the point. Talking about it won't change what happens. And there has never been a use of worrying in things he can't control.

…still, Ribbit isn't like Jax. While Jax is able to often push uncomfortable topics away and ignore them, seeing no reason to dwell on such things, Ribbit's mind was constantly swirling, constantly thinking. They were the thinker of the two. The one who got anxious and thought things through so Jax didn't have to.

(Maybe it was because of their parents? Because while Jax's constantly tried to think for him, never giving him a choice on how to live his life, Ribbit's (from what Jax saw anyways) were much more distant. Ribbit had to think things through and make important decisions, and not just for themself but for their younger siblings too.)

Ribbit was the one who asked questions, and Jax was the one who kept things light. And even if Jax ended this conversation now, nothing would stop Ribbit from continuing to think about this topic later.

"…why have you thought about this so much?" Jax finally asks, in much quieter and softer voice than he usually speaks in. If it wasn't for this conversation, he'd probably be asleep. The background noise, the soothing ministrations, the warm (as warm as an amphibian can be anyways) presence beside him.

Yet, his mind was unable to rest. Not with Ribbit's recent questions lingering in the air.

Ribbit's motions halt for a moment, only adding to the sense of wrong. A wrongness which is only amplified by the laugh Ribbit gives. It's not their normal half-croak. It's a bit too high pitched. A bit too nervous.

"Oh, you know me." Yeah, he does. "Just… overthinking, I guess."

And Ribbit overthinking means Ribbit worrying most of the time.

"…right…" Jax starts, trailing off, trying to find the right words. "You know, you don't have to worry about this. It's not going to happen to us."

(And Jax can't help but give a cruel laugh to his past self and his naivety. Who was he to say that? How stupid was he?)

"You don't know that." Ribbit says, starting to shift away and move Jax off their lap, causing Jax to sit up. The words cause something in Jax's chest to sink. It has to be like that. It has to be the case. Because otherwise— if none of them have a choice in the matter— if Jax doesn't have a choice in the matter— "None of us know that! What if there's no avoiding it? What if it's just... just inevitable?"

Any semblance of peace in the room is gone, and Jax can barely hear the running water over the racing thoughts in his own mind. He needs to say something, needs to do something. He can feel Ribbit's mounting panic. The way these words have clearly been building up for some time (and Jax was just too stupid to see it.)

Jax turns his body to fully face the other, and he can see that Ribbit is looking down at the bed, avoiding Jax's gaze.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

What does he say? What does he say? What does he say?

A memory comes to him, words told to him by Kinger when he and Ribbit had first joined the circus. Jax had been so overwhelmed by everything, even more so when he found out about abstraction. He put on a good face, continued to joke around, sharing Ribbit's relaxed attitude because he refused to be the one to panic. If Ribbit, the thinker of the two, seemed to be taking it all in stride, then isn't that a sign Jax should too?

He tried. He tried so hard. But then, after the digital feast Caine gave them for finishing the day's adventure (something to do with a jungle and stealing artifacts (because Caine is apparently a colonial white guy)), he just found a dark corner of the circus and fell apart.

He'd tried to eat the chicken they had at the feast, but it didn't taste right. It didn't taste real. And of course it didn't. It was just bits of code. The facsimile of chicken. A poor imitation.

It didn't taste right.

In a lot of ways it didn't taste at all.

And that, somehow, was his breaking point. He could handle the changes to his body (he never liked his old one much anyways. Too short, too curvy, too—) He could handle suddenly having a new voice and not knowing his old name (was it ever even his to begin with?)

But food. The fact that he couldn't really eat. That was what caused Jax to finally realize just how trapped he was. Because in a lot of ways, his old life had been a prison too, and despite what everyone around him said, the circus seemed like a chance to be free. He could finally be himself. Not the "perfect daughter." Not the "miracle child."

Just him. Jax.

The first thing he did entering this world was pick a new name for himself. A name for him. And it was like he was finally getting to claim his own life. Except…

Except it wasn't his. He was trapped. This time, not by parents and doctors and societal expectations, but by bits of code and technology.

It wasn't his.

And as Jax sat in that dark corner, breathing heavily, it hit him that it maybe never would be.

But then there was a presence beside him, someone he didn't even hear approaching over his heavy breathing. The violet-robed chess piece had just stood there, acting as quiet support, not pushing, not talking, just waiting.

Waiting. Waiting for Jax to make a choice. To make the first move.

And when they finally talked, he never pushed Jax further. Never forced his touch on him. He just listened. And then offered his own words in response, telling Jax about his time in the circus, how even if they were trapped there, they could still have lives of their own, how even in this bad situation, they could take the opportunities it presented, live in ways they hadn't gotten the chance to live before.

How the key to surviving wasn't to focus on being trapped, but to focus on living.

(Then, in the end, he offered Jax a hug. And when Jax shakily turned him down, Kinger gave him nothing but a nod and a warm look. Understanding. Respect.)

(Kinger was one of the first adults Jax ever met who gave him that courtesy. And that's why, years later, even when resentment builds whenever Jax sees the crazed remains of the man who had once talked to him in that corner, he can never bring himself to truly turn his ire on him.)

(No, no it wasn't. Kinger was just too easy of a target. That's why Jax never tried with him. Besides, Jax didn't need to do shit for Kinger to be funny to watch, the man did it on his own. And part of Jax's schtick is garnering certain reactions out of people and with Kinger… you never know the reaction you're gonna get. It's unreliable. Jax doesn't have control.)

The words Kinger had told to him at that time had really helped, had allowed him to get an understanding of the circus and how to move forward. It made things feel less like a prison. Jax only had to feel trapped if he allowed himself to.

The words had helped him, and Jax was going to try and use the same sentiment to help Ribbit. Ribbit who somehow was always the "okay" one. Ribbit who got anxious but never freaked out. Who always had a smart comment or something to say.

"Well…" Jax starts, and god, is he bad at this. "Abstraction is all about going crazy right? If we're here, together— we can make sure the other is okay." Jax does not have a way with words, the way Kinger had said this sounded much better. But Kinger wasn't here. And Kinger wasn't Ribbit's best friend. Ribbit's person. Jax was. And all Jax could offer was… "I'll make sure you don't go sprouting eyeballs and you do the same for me."

Ribbit's gaze flickers up to meet Jax's own, hesitant and unsure (and Jax remembers when his eyes used to be the ones like that.) A shaky attempt at a smile appears on the frog's face , one that Jax returns.

And then, a quiet voice speaks. In the almost silent room though, it is the only thing Jax can hear (and Jax suspects even if they were in some loud, crowded room, Ribbit's voice would still be the only thing he heard.)

"…you promise?" There is a slight brush of Ribbit's fingers against Jax's own. A question. A plea.

Jax gives a slight nod and tangles their fingers together.

"Promise." He says, with a faint smile.

But he lied.

He lied.

He's a liar.

Ribbit said he wasn't a good actor, but they were wrong. Because they believed him at the time. Believed him until the end, when their perspective finally began to change and they saw the truth of what Jax is.

He broke his promise. Because Ribbit is gone. Jax said he would be there to prevent them from abstracting, but in the end he was the one who pushed them over the edge. He was supposed to be there for them and he wasn't. He let them spiral until it was too late. He didn't say the right words. He wasn't ever the right friend.

Jax told Ribbit that he'd stop them from sprouting eyeballs, but then a couple years later, all he could do was watch and plead as the eyes slowly emerged on the frog's body. All the while, Ribbit didn't seem to care. The only thing they feared in that moment was Jax (and hey, maybe they were right to.)

Ribbit is gone. All that remains of them is in the basement, in the darkness, even darker than the room Jax subjects himself to.

Because Jax isn't that dumb little kid anymore. He's not camped out in his friend's room, purring as the other plays with his ears.

He's in his own room. Away. Under the covers and trying to submerge himself in darkness because it's just easier that way.

He doesn't want to be here.

He doesn't want to be anywhere.

He just wants to forget.

Forget.

Forget.

Forget the trust in Ribbit's eyes. Forget the hand. Forget the promise. Forget Jax's failure.

Forget watching as Ribbit screamed at him, trust gone from the other's eyes. Forget as Jax could do nothing but watch as Ribbit got crueler and crueler, shoving him into a wall. Getting too close, too close. And too angry.

And then, out of the corner of Jax's eye—

He had thought it was the trick of the light at first. Or like when you start to panic and your vision goes weird. Because there had been a spot of darkness of Ribbit's knee. But—

But it grew, necrosis spreading up and down the rest of Ribbit's leg like an infection, like a plague. A metastasizing cancer. Tissue gone rogue, climbing up the insides of one's body and adhering to the inner walls of their body, gluing itself to their organs, taking control and making everything around it just part of it.

The blazing fire grew, and with it, in the flames began to squelch and emerge dozens of multi-colored pods.

No— eyes.

The eyes hatched from the blackened, charred remains of Ribbit's leg, popping like blisters. But within the blister just emerged another blister, because with the eyes came a promise.

Something worse was coming.

The decay only grew, sprouting slowly across the rest of Ribbit's body like a growing fungus, a parasite taking control of its host.

And with all of it, Ribbit continued not to react, doing nothing but look at Jax with revulsion as if he was the disease here.

The poison.

“You’re nothing but a virus. Poison."

Poison. Because Jax was the source of this growing decay. He was the cancer. The spreading tissue. Hurting people around him in his own attempt to live. Benefiting nobody but himself.

Jax's existence was just infecting the people around him, and they would never truly be safe, never be truly happy, until he was cut out.

Yet, for some reason, he won't be. Because somebody decided it would be better if Jax stayed? (And why? Jax doesn't want it. All it does is hurt him. The only one who wants it is his pare—)

Jax remembers the decaying Ribbit yanking his arm, remembers the painful buzzing that was then transferred to him, his arm feeling like it was on fire and freezing and being stabbed and crushed all at the same time.

He can still feel it.

Even in the present, as he looks at his arm from under the covers, he can still see some of the flickering. He can still feel the way his nerves felt on fire and out of control, painfully spasming in a way that mimicked pain Jax had felt on occasion when his back was especially bad, but also painful in a way that felt unreal.

Which made sense, because none of this was real.

None of this was real.

None of this was real.

Except the words Ribbit said felt real. The sensation of their hand playing with their ear felt real. The confusion and pain Jax felt when they turned on him felt real. The joy he had when playing with Pomni felt real. The hug she gave him and the lingering burn in his body, in his hand (the same hand that Ribbit—) after he pushed her away felt real.

The eyes emerging on his arm looked real.

…they weren't though. This was just Jax's mind screwing with him. This was just the corruption inside of him reaching new depths. This was just—

"Thank goodness this is all a dream, right Pomni?"

This wasn't real. This wasn't real.

Two more eyes emerge at his forearm, hatching from his skin like insects. The surrounding area becomes black and block-like, devoid of fur.

This wasn't real.

They blink at him.

This wasn't real.

This—

Jax can feel the buzzing sensation so much more clearly now, a pain coming deep within his body, spreading to his arm, building up under his skin and erupting in the form of colorful eyes and tar-like flesh.

…

This is real, isn't it?

…

…oh.

…

…huh.

…

…

…fuck.

FUCK!

The revulsion and horror hits Jax all at once as his mind finally computes that this is actually happening to his body—

(Not his body, never his body)

—and he jolts, spine snapped straight, the noise that rips itself from his throat indescribable. It burns in his esophagus, as he flails, blankets drawing tighter. Burns like his arm is now—black blocks doubling, swelling.

Jax makes it again.

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Soft mattress turns to empty air. Empty air, to hard ground.

Jax barely notices. Barely notices the ache in his head where it hits the carpet, barely notices the blankets still tangled too tight around his legs.

Barely notices anything but the buzzing.

A hive of bees, swarming beneath his skin, beneath his arm. A nest of wasps, growing angrier, angrier, angrier. They burst out in clusters, creeping up toward his elbow. Black tar. One eye. A second. A third.

Stinging. Stinging. Stinging.

Jax's heart slams into his ribs. He leaps to his feet, blankets falling down his legs, the air whistling between his teeth as he claws gloved fingers over his arm, into his arm, scratchingscratchingscratching like some flea-ridden dog.

The eyes (oh god, oh god, there's so many there's so many there's so) shriek. High. Staticky. He shrieks with them, false muscles spasming, watching as his elbow foams with black goo. Foams with—

With—

The characters in the circus, the people in the circus, didn't bleed. They weren't supposed to bleed. Not anymore. They could be hit, stabbed, scratched, thrown off a cliff or into a blender—but they wouldn't bruise, they wouldn't bleed. The Amazing Digital Circus was for children, after all (what children would ever watch this? Were they being watched now? Was he being watched now?) and the addition of blood would merely scare them, make it more real, only none of it is real, only—

Only blood, red and thick and real, is spurting out with the goo. Spurting out with each eye he digs his fingers into, spurting out like he pierced an artery—the eyes themselves merely blinking around the mixture. Slow. Confused.

Jax stumbles, ears pressed flat to the back of his head. And the buzzing is louder now. The wasps angrier. He can hear it almost as much as he can feel it, drowning out the rapid thump of his heart—burning in his false flesh, freezing in his false flesh. The tar overtakes his elbow, blocks erupting at his wrist.

And he scratches.

As much as he can. As hard as he can.

He scratches, scratches, scratches, red and black splattering over his fingertips—

—his eyes catch on a mirror.

(If he were anyone else, the dim lighting would leave it nigh impossible to make much of anything out.)

(He isn't anyone else.)

(He's Jax, with his stupid rabbit senses and his stupid rabbit sight)

And when he meets his own gaze in the tall, evermocking glass—

His pupils are mere dots. Thin, fearful. He stares into them, into him, the burning, buzzing echoing in his ears.

His ears.

His ear.

The left one. His left ear. The one Ribbit had such a weird attachment to, the one they would play with, and pet, and scratch, and—

—eyes.

Eyes. Eyes.

So many eyes.

Hatching at the very tip, glowing in reds and yellows and greens and blues—

No.

No. No.

No.

Nonononononononononononononononononono—

He screams. Or maybe he cries. He doesn't know. He doesn't know anything anymore except for the eyes. The eyes. All over his arm. His ear. And its worse than corn. So much worse than the corn because they're blinking, and looking, and staring at him, and he can feel them. He can feel them. Not just the buzzing but them.

Big. Lumpy. Like a bunch of mini volcanoes primed for eruption. Squishy, but firm. Hot, but cold. Eyes.

Eyes everywhere.

Jax stops scratching. Forces his fingers into one of the eyes on his wrist instead—pulling, prying.

Blood. Goo.

Static. Screeching.

He can barely hear it, above the buzzing, but the eye quivers. Spasms.

And then, with static, with the tearing of false flesh, with a freezing burn and buzzingsomuchbuzzing it stretches—

—and splits.

Right. Into. Two.

It blinks at him. They blink at him.

Jax vomits.

Goo. More goo. It pours onto the carpet, onto his feet—mouthful, after mouthful, after mouthful. Black goo, almost tar-like, and he shoves his fist where his lips would be if he had any, gagging against the spray.

It tastes like static.

His tongue is numb. His mouth is numb. Jax sways, not moving his hand and—

Pink. Yellow. Green.

Purple. Maroon.

Tiny. Small.

Staring up at him, from the vomit.

Jax vomits again.

Dots dance at the corners of his vision, dark and hazy. Jax slams his eyes shut. Gags. Stumbles back one step, two, arm burning as the wasps travel down to his left hand.

Eyes, he knows without looking. More eyes. More—

His back collides with something cold, something hard, something that cracks with a ear-splitting shatter.

And he does it without thinking.

Looks without thinking.

Glass. So much glass. At his feet, around his feet—scattered one way, another.

And in them.

In them. In them. In them.

Eyes. Eyes. Eyes.

So many. So many. Every color. So many. In every shattered piece. It's like looking into a funhouse mirror. Warped. Distorted. A dark, colorful mass that has completely swallowed his hand, now. Is crawling up, up, up toward his shoulder.

And his ear.

His ear. His ear. His ear.

It's eating him. It's eating him. The darkness, big and blocky and staticky. The eyes, popping up like pimples on a teenager in the midst of puberty. Only, that would imply this were even remotely human, and its not human, not in the slightest because humans don't grow eyes like this, don't live in a rabbit's body like he does, don't even hold the risk of abstraction—

(But they do die.)

"What? So they just lose everything they were and become violent blobs? What happens to them, the person?"

Jax doesn't want to go.

"Well, I— I don't know. What do you think?"

The realization is a knife to the chest, like those talons—long and jagged and poking into the soft meat of his heart.

"I don't know either! Obviously. But like— do their minds just disappear? Do our bodies go brain dead?"

He doesn't want to go.

"Do we just die?"

He doesn't want to die.

Jax doesn't want to die.

Energy—energy that has been missing for hours, for days—floods back into him, coursing through false veins, drawing the exhaustion from his bones.

But it's too late.

(Always too late.)

The dancing dots are tapdancing now. Creeping out from the corners, darkness inching toward the center, faster and faster and—

—and Jax can barely see. Can barely make out anything more than the flicker of neon eyes in the pieces of mirror below. Of his feet, splattered in tar-like vomit. The buzzing is so much louder, the burning so much hotter—

His right ear twitches.

(His left ear burnsburnsburns)

Humming. Faint. Distant.

(Voices?)

Jax almost laughs.

It catches in his throat. Razor blades, giving way to another bout of tar.

He gags on it, spitting out glob after glob after—

—because he's hearing things now.

Of course he is. He's abstracting, and he's hallucinating, and—

(KNOCK)

—and his mind is lashing out, a last ditch effort at comfort for the life slipping through his fingertips—

"Do the ones stuck in the basement know they're in there? Know what they've become?"

—because that's whats happening, isn't it? He's abstracting. He's dying. He—

(KNOCK)

—he won't come back from this.

(KNOCK)

He falls to his knees, the jagged shards stabbing into him. But it doesn't hurt. Not really.

The burning is nearing his shoulder now. And the eyes are still coming. He doesn't have to see them to know. The wasps are buzzing, stinging, and the blinking. He can feel them blinking oh god he can feel them blinking he can feel them he can feel them—

—he won't come back from this.

The thought is dizzying. As nauseating as the dots still dancing, still marching over what little he can make out of the ground. And he wants to scream. To beg. To plead.

But can he even do that? Does he even have a mouth anymore? Or have the eyes (eyeseyeseyeseyeseyessomanyeyes) overtaken that too?

Can he even breathe?

The buzzing. The static. It's so much, too much.

Like talons. A million tiny talons.

(And they're everywhere alloverhimeverywhere.)

Cutting, stabbing.

Digging into him, into the eyeseyeseyes as a hawk digs into a rabbit.

But the eyes don't pop. He claws at them, plunges his fingers deep into socket after socket after socket but they merely blink around them, blood and goo wet against his gloves, warm and cold and staticky.

(KNOCK. KNOCK.)

Who's there?

(KNOCK. KNOCK.)

Who's there?

(KNOCK. KNOCK.)

Who would ever be there?

(KNOCK. KNOCK.)

No one. No one at all.

Not Ribbit. Not—

(KNOCK. KNOCK.)

Not her.

(KNOCK. KNOCK.)

Faint.

(KNOCK. KNOCK.)

It's all so faint. Buried under the buzzingbuzzingbuzzing.

(KNOCK. KNOCK.)

It's all he can hear.

(KNOCK. KNOCK.)

The door.

The realization dawns on him slowly, but it dawns all the same.

(KNOCK. KNOCK.)

It isn't coming from his mind.

It's coming from the door.

(KNOCK. KNOCK.)

The door. The door, too far away to reach, a distance that seems to warp, stretching like a hospital corridor through his darkening, spinning vision. A distance riddled with glass, shattered and sharp. Stained with vomit, with inky tar and eyeseyeseyeseyeseyeseyes.

A distance that seems so insurmountable.

(What's the point?)

(Of crossing it, of even trying?)

There is none.

(There never was.)

It's then, that it strikes him.

Not the slow realization of the door.

A bullet. Quick, light.

Sinking right between his ribs, as the dancing dots become no dots at all. A blanket of black. Of nothing.

Oh, the bullet goes.

The static reaches his head, a buzzingbuzzingbuzzing that stretches over his mind like a quilt, cushioning his senses. Filling them.

I'm not fine.

There's a creak. A door opening, miles and miles and miles and miles and miles and miles and miles and miles and miles and miles and miles and miles away.

Jax doesn't hear it.

He's too far gone.

(Always too far gone.)