Chapter Text
“God, you look stupid.”
Jax muttered the words into the mirror as if they were a fact, not an insult. His voice was calm, flat—no bite in it, no sneer that usually accompanied his jabs at the others. Just a statement, as though he were reading the label on a box.
The reflection stared back at him, ears drooping slightly in spite of the smug tilt of his mouth. His lidded eyes dragged over every line, every bright curve of cartoon fur, every exaggerated proportion. The longer he looked, the harder it became to decide whether the grin belonged to him or the glass.
Behind him, muffled music bled through the restroom walls. The sound of celebration—Caine’s reward ceremony still roaring in the auditorium. Trumpets, canned clapping, the occasional burst of laughter that might not even have come from the audience but from somewhere in the programmed walls themselves.
Jax’s gloved hands gripped the sink tighter. The porcelain—crimson red, unnervingly bright—reflected distorted patches of purple where his fur brushed it.
Another noise drew his ear. A shuffle. A creak. His head flicked toward the stalls just in time to see the door of one creak open. An NPC waddled out. Their face was blank, an expressionless mask barely capable of acknowledging his presence. As they walked past him, they shimmered faintly, then disintegrated into static and blinked out of existence.
Jax stared. Not with shock, not with confusion. Just unimpressed, as though the universe had coughed and forgotten to cover its mouth.
He huffed, shaking his head. His ears twitched back, then forward again, trying to pretend they hadn’t. He straightened up, rolling his shoulders as though loosening the tension could hide it.
The mirror still showed that trouble was written across his features—small cracks beneath the casual smirk, shadows under the eyes that never really faded here.
From outside, Caine’s voice boomed, muffled but distinct. A list of winners. Sections of the game world rewarded for their performance in the last challenge. The audience—real or imagined—cheered.
Jax glanced at the restroom door. His pupils dilated. His smile widened—deliberately, carefully crafted like a mask being slid into place.
And then he pushed himself upright and headed for the exit.
Two NPCs passed him in the hall, muttering in garbled gibberish that barely qualified as words. Their faces barely animated, their bodies moving on autopilot. Jax didn’t bother to listen. He had learned a long time ago that if he paid too much attention, he’d start noticing when the loops broke, when they said the same thing again with only a single syllable changed. And if he noticed, it’d stick with him.
And he didn’t like things sticking.
The auditorium was blinding when he stepped back inside.
Caine had designed it to be grand, dazzling, larger than life. A theatre too perfect, with velvet seats in impossible rows that stretched upward into darkness and chandeliers swaying overhead though there was no air. Banners unfurled themselves in bursts of colour, glowing text flickering across them with names and categories.
The others were scattered around the front rows. Ragatha clapped politely, though her smile was tight, frayed at the edges. Pomni sat hunched, knees tucked up, eyes wide as though every sound threatened to crack her skull in half. Kinger was babbling, distracted by something only he could see, his hands twisting at invisible strings.
Jax closed his eyes as he strode down the aisle, the grin still set across his face, though it twitched once as if it might slip. His gait had rhythm, a sway that made it look like he was strutting to a song only he could hear. Confident. Carefree. Or at least that’s what it was meant to sell.
He didn’t head for the front where Pomni and Ragatha sat, didn’t bother with the thick of the group. Instead, he cut sideways, choosing one of the farther rows, a patch surrounded by NPCs that cheered and clapped like wind-up toys. The orange mannequins jerked their hands together in applause, eyes painted on but never blinking, bodies jerking just enough to imitate life.
Jax slipped between them, letting himself fall into the chair with the ease of someone who’d done it a thousand times. He ducked a little, low enough that if anyone turned back to scan the crowd, they’d only see the back of an NPC’s head instead of his. A shield of nonsense.
He pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose, pinching hard, his ears twitching with irritation. Caine’s voice rolled through the hall like a storm on repeat, loud, theatrical, impossible to ignore, and yet Jax managed to tune it out. Every exaggerated syllable slid in one ear and fell straight out the other.
“Blah, blah, blah… favourite character!” Jax muttered under his breath, his lips barely moving. He didn’t have to guess who Caine was going to crown. That answer had been preloaded from the moment the curtain lifted.
A sigh hissed past his teeth. His eyes cut toward the front rows.
From his vantage, he could just make out the crooked tips of Pomni’s jester hat bobbing faintly, her posture stiff like someone on the edge of snapping. Next to her, Ragatha’s hair framed her head like a neat halo, her body angled slightly toward Pomni in that soft, guiding way she always carried herself. Ragatha’s hand probably rested on Pomni’s shoulder, offering comfort she wasn’t sure how to take.
The others? Jax didn’t bother squinting to find them. Kinger could be anywhere, half-buried in his own spirals. Zooble would be slouched, unimpressed, waiting for the nonsense to end. Gangle—well, depending on whether she had her comedy mask intact, she was either tolerating it or crumbling quietly.
Didn’t matter. None of them mattered.
He wasn’t sticking around longer than he had to.
As soon as Caine handed himself his inevitable trophy, Jax was gone.
The clapping around him erupted into thunder. NPCs jerked forward in unison, slamming their palms together with cartoonish precision, voices overlapping in garbled chants. The sound made Jax jolt despite himself, a flinch quickly hidden by a scoff.
He looked up.
The stage was bathed in sickly spotlight, confetti freezing in midair as Caine stood stock-still, arms raised, grin wider than his head should’ve allowed. His spiralling eyes swirled faster, brighter, before his voice cracked through the silence.
“And who—who could possibly win such a glorious title? Favourite Character!”
There was a dramatic pause. The room itself seemed to lean in.
An NPC leaned up, whispering something loud enough for everyone to hear, “You, sir! Obviously!”
The crowd burst into pre-programmed laughter.
Caine froze, gaze darting, and then let out a booming, “Well, OF COURSE IT WAS ME!” He twirled in the air, showering himself in fireworks.
The NPCs clapped harder, hollow palms meeting hollow palms until it sounded like rainfall.
Jax leaned back into his chair, smirk flickering for the first time. His hand dragged over his mouth, pushing the grin back into place like a cracked mask glued on before anyone could notice.
It would’ve been funny if it wasn’t so predictable. If it wasn’t so loud.
His fingers tapped against his knee, restless. Too much noise outside, too much noise inside his head.
There were times when Jax wondered if Caine staged these ridiculous events as distraction—louder, brighter, bigger, so none of them would think too hard about what lay underneath. The circus was a puzzle box with missing pieces. Every time someone pried at the seams, the world doubled down with something like this—confetti, fanfare, ceremonies no one asked for.
It worked on some of them. It didn’t work on him.
The thought made his lip curl.
Pomni, though-yeah. She was new enough, raw enough, that she couldn’t stop looking for the seams. That’s why she was always wound up, twitching at shadows. Ragatha was the opposite—she’d learned to smooth her edges, to press her panic into smiles and gentle tones until no one could tell if she actually felt calm anymore.
Two ends of the same BOINK-ed stick. Both exhausting in their own way.
And him? He’d figured out how to ride the middle. Don’t deny it, don’t dwell on it. Laugh at the cracks. Mock the panic. Keep everyone else squirming so he never had to show he was squirming too.
Simple.
A burst of fireworks rattled the rafters, snapping him from his thoughts.
Caine juggled his golden trophy in midair, eyes gleaming. “Yes, yes! Truly deserving! Who else but ME? But enough about the obvious—we’ve had winners, we’ve had laughter, we’ve had—oh-ho!—a whole parade of triumphs!”
The voice clawed at Jax’s ears, the pitch pitched too high, the reverb unnatural. He squeezed his brow again, muttering, “For BOINK’s sake.”
One of the orange NPCs beside him tilted its head, static fizzing faintly in its jaw as though it had registered sound. Then, just as quickly, it snapped back into its cycle, clapping with dead-eyed fervour.
Jax snorted softly. “Yeah, didn’t think so.”
But the faint fizz didn’t leave his ears. It lingered like a mosquito buzz.
He leaned forward, eyes narrowing toward the front.
Pomni had her hands pressed tight against her knees, head bowed just enough to shadow her expression. Ragatha leaned in, whispering something with a careful tilt of her head. Pomni gave no reaction—no nod, no glance back. Just sat there, knuckles whitening.
The air felt heavier around them, though maybe that was just Jax noticing more than he wanted to.
Caine kept laughing, louder and louder, filling the space until it rattled the floorboards.
Jax sank back again, grin curling. He wasn’t going to give the world the satisfaction of seeing him rattled. Not the NPCs, not Pomni, not Ragatha, and especially not Caine.
Let them clap themselves raw.
He’d outlast the noise.
The fanfare dwindled until it became only echoes on velvet curtains, a hollow ringing that clung to the auditorium walls. The NPCs, obedient to whatever script they were wired into, waited until the stage lights cut to black before rising as one. Their claps stopped in perfect sync, silence swallowing the room like a switch had been flipped. Then, without hesitation, they dissolved. One by one, each figure popped into nothing, bursting in tiny clouds of static, their absence leaving behind neat, empty rows.
Jax tilted his head as he watched the vanishing act. No flinch, no comment, just detached amusement at how the digital world cleaned up after itself like it was tidying toys. He stretched his legs out, rolling his ankles before standing, the grin snapping back across his face as easily as pulling a string. Hands shoved deep into his pockets, shoulders loose, he strolled toward the exit like the whole place bored him to tears.
But he felt the weight.
Eyes.
Pomni’s, specifically. Even without looking, he knew she was watching him — jittery, suspicious, maybe even curious in that way newcomers always were when they hadn’t yet learned what was worth ignoring. Her gaze burned at the back of his head. He didn’t turn. He didn’t give her the satisfaction of acknowledgment.
She’d learn soon enough that staring too hard at anyone here never ended well.
He knew he had to wait — Caine always brought them back to the circus on his schedule, not theirs. But that didn’t mean Jax had to stick around in the herd. He had no patience for forced chatter, no interest in fake applause or nervous jokes to fill the silence. He’d wait elsewhere. Lobby, backstage, the rafters if he had to. Anywhere that didn’t smell like panic and glitter.
He slipped out through the side, the heavy curtains swishing behind him.
The corridor outside was quieter, though not silent. Jax’s ears twitched at the distant clamor — Caine still bellowing onstage, congratulating himself in his carnival bark tone.
“Favourite character! Truly a performance worth endless encores!”
Jax rounded a corner and froze.
Caine was already celebrating. Floating high, confetti still orbiting his body like he was the sun and the particles his planets. He spun slowly, trophy balanced in one oversized glove, eyes glowing with spirals of endless colour.
But it wasn’t just Caine.
Something shuffled past Jax’s legs. A small, green, fuzzy creature, barely reaching his waist. Its stubby hands clutched a mask — a Caine mask. The thing wore it over its head, the painted grin stretched wide and stiff. The disguise only made it look more wrong.
Jax stared. His own smile twitched wider, but his eyes narrowed.
“What the…” he muttered under his breath.
The little thing waddled forward, humming in distorted gibberish, as if mocking a parade tune. Jax wrinkled his nose. The design was sloppy, even by this world’s standards. Too patchy, too half-finished, like someone had pressed ‘spawn’ in the middle of coding.
Impulse tugged his foot out.
The creature tripped with a squeal, toppling forward. The Caine mask slipped sideways, scraping across the floor as the thing tumbled into a roll. Its fuzz flattened with static, then poofed back upright as it scrambled, wobbling, before scuttling away down the corridor without looking back.
Jax chuckled, sharp and low, shaking his head. “Pathetic.”
He turned on his heel.
The lobby unfolded before him like the entrance to an old theatre, gaudy to the point of parody. A ticket desk stretched across one wall, polished wood shining unnaturally under chandeliers that hung at skewed angles. Posters lined the walls — not of films or plays, but of Caine himself. His painted face appeared in every pose imaginable, grins layered on grins, eyes whirling in colours that clashed too loudly to be real.
Couches were scattered haphazardly across the carpet, oversized and plush, cushions sunk too deep as if daring someone to disappear into them. The air smelled faintly of sugar and dust, a mix that made no sense but clung to the back of the throat.
Jax flopped down on one of the couches, sprawling with theatrical ease, one arm slung over the backrest. He crossed his ankles, head tilted back, expression fixed casual.
Waiting.
If there was one thing he’d perfected, it was waiting.
He could hear faint noises from the corridor still — footsteps, muffled voices. The others filtering out. Pomni would be trailing Ragatha, wide-eyed and quiet. Zooble probably muttering BOINK under their breath. Gangle, silent unless prompted. Kinger… who knew.
Jax didn’t move. He’d let them scatter. He had no desire to ‘check in’ or ‘talk about feelings’ or whatever Ragatha would inevitably try to coax out of Pomni.
His smirk sharpened. He’d much rather watch the mess unfold from a safe distance.
The couch groaned faintly under his weight, as if alive. He tapped his gloved fingers against the armrest in rhythm with his own thoughts, ears twitching whenever the world made a noise too subtle to be part of the script.
For now, it was just him and the empty lobby, the echoes of forced applause still rattling faintly in his skull.
And he’d take this over the crowd any day.
Of course he couldn’t have peace for long.
The quiet had barely settled before his ears twitched. Faint footsteps, voices overlapping, the dissonant buzz of the others drifting closer. He pressed his head back into the couch cushion with a sigh, exhaling through his teeth as if the sound alone could push them away.
He didn’t move. Instead, he stretched out more, one knee hooked lazily over the arm of the couch, the other leg bouncing in idle rhythm. A folded magazine had been left on the side table, its cover bright and pointless. He snagged it with two fingers, flipping through glossy pages filled with nonsense — advertisements for attractions that didn’t exist, smiling faces of characters he’d never seen wandering the circus. Some pages weren’t even finished, text blocks reading ‘Lorem Ipsum’ like the world had given up halfway through.
He chuckled under his breath. “Quality reading.”
The double-doors swung open with a creak that seemed louder than it should’ve been.
Gangle shuffled in first, her ribbons dragging against the carpet. Her mask — the sad one — sagged with exaggerated lines, almost drooping off her face. Draped across her shoulders was Zooble, their angular form slumped like dead weight, clinging to Gangle’s thin frame as though they’d sink through the floor without her holding them up.
Jax didn’t bother hiding his smirk.
“Well, well,” he called, voice smooth and taunting, “looks like someone’s had a fun night. Did the freakshow finally discover happy hour, or did they just find the one bottle labeled ‘drink me’ and go for it?”
Zooble hiccupped, head jerking upright for a moment before wobbling again. Their mismatched eyes struggled to focus on him, one half-lidded, the other spinning slightly in its socket. “Go BOINK yourself,” they slurred, words dragging like broken audio.
Jax barked a laugh, tossing the magazine aside. “Classy. Really, I’m impressed. You’ve managed to make your usual charm sound almost poetic. Almost.”
Gangle muttered something soft, her ribbons tightening around Zooble as she half-carried, half-dragged them to the couch opposite his. She eased them down, fussing with careful adjustments until Zooble slumped back comfortably. Their jagged limbs sprawled awkwardly, one metallic knee sticking up, the other leg bent at an impossible angle.
The door opened again.
Ragatha entered, one hand at Pomni’s back, guiding her as though she were leading a child through traffic. Ragatha’s smile was in place, but the edges strained, her fabric face gleaming faintly under the chandelier light.
“Before you start—” she said, voice carrying that parental warning tone, “Zooble got into the sauce from Spudsy’s. That’s why they’re like this.”
Jax’s ears perked, grin widening. “Oh, that explains it. Thought maybe they finally realised where they were and decided to short-circuit on purpose.”
“Knock it off.” Ragatha’s head turned sharply toward him, eyes narrowing in warning. Her voice stayed calm, but the undercurrent was firm, practiced.
Jax’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second, just enough for him to notice it himself. He leaned back further, stretching his arms across the couch as though her words bounced harmlessly off him. “Relax, doll. I’m just appreciating the entertainment. Not my fault the lightweight can’t handle a drink.”
Ragatha’s gaze lingered on him, then flicked toward Pomni before she finally sat down.
Jax caught it. The look.
Like she was already making assumptions. Like she thought he’d done something, stirred the pot again.
He bit the inside of his cheek. Because yeah, maybe he had said things, and maybe Pomni had said things back, but let’s not pretend she hadn’t thrown the first swing. She’d lashed out at him. She was the one who snapped. He’d just been… himself.
But they didn’t know that. Ragatha hadn’t been there. None of them had. They’d been locked up in Caine’s little ‘loser’s jail,’ left with only his version of events.
And apparently, in that version, Jax was the villain.
His grin slipped sharp again, pointed, defiant. He wasn’t about to explain himself.
Pomni shuffled beside Ragatha, sinking onto the couch with all the energy of a marionette whose strings had been cut. She didn’t look at him, not directly, but he felt her glances dart like knives from the corner of her eyes. Her hat drooped forward, bells twitching with every nervous fidget.
The silence didn’t last.
Jax leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, grin splitting wider. “What’s the matter, Pomni? Cat got your tongue? Or are you waiting for Ragatha to tell you how you feel first?”
Ragatha’s voice cut in, sharp now. “Enough, Jax.”
Her eyes flicked between them, the disapproval plain. But when she looked at him specifically, it stung sharper than he expected. The kind of look that wasn’t anger so much as disappointment — like she’d already made up her mind about what he was.
And that sat in his chest heavier than it should’ve.
He forced a chuckle, pushing back into his seat, mask sliding back into place. “Touchy crowd tonight.”
Across the room, Gangle gently adjusted Zooble’s head so it rested against the back of the couch. Zooble mumbled something incoherent, half-snarling, half-groaning, before going limp again. Gangle settled beside them, ribbons wrapping protectively around their frame.
No one sat near Jax. Not that he cared.
Jax groaned, long and drawn-out, the kind of obnoxious sound that rattled against the walls just to make sure everyone heard it. He dragged it into a whine, pitched higher as he sprawled further into the couch.
“Ughhh… how long does this BOINKing take? He’s gotta march us back eventually, right? Or are we stuck here while Caine gives himself another five speeches?”
Pomni flicked her eyes toward him, only for a second. No words. Just that sharp, weary glance — like she’d already burned out on his antics and didn’t have the energy to fuel another spat. Her hat shifted when she turned away, bells jingling faintly as she hunched back down beside Ragatha.
Zooble stirred. They sat slouched, one arm folded under their head like a pillow, but their mismatched eyes narrowed in his direction. Their voice came out rough, slurred, but still packed with irritation.
“Can you, like… shut the BOINK up? Just… once?”
Jax turned his head, grinning wider, ears perked as though delighted by the invitation. “Aw, did I wake the little scrap heap? My bad. Should’ve let you keep drooling into the upholstery.”
Zooble grumbled, dragging their spiky limb across their face. “You’re an exhausting BOINK.”
He chuckled, not sharp this time, but drawn out, almost lazy. “Mhm. And yet here I am, still breathing your precious air. Life’s unfair, huh?”
Instead of pushing harder, he let the words hang. Rolled his eyes, tilted his grin sharper, then stretched his arms across the back of the couch. No escalation. Just a casual dismissal, which somehow irritated Zooble more than any insult would have.
On the table beside him, a stray rubber band and a pen caught his eye. He plucked them up, fingers pulling at the band, stretching it further and further with a little squeak of tension. The pen balanced precariously, drawn back like ammunition.
He could hear Pomni’s voice low, murmuring with Ragatha’s. Something about finally having that talk. Something about sleepovers, as if the word still held meaning in a place like this. He scrunched his nose, pulling a face. The idea of bonding sessions in the void circus made him want to gag.
His gaze slid to Gangle.
“Hey, Gangle.”
The ribboned figure stiffened at the sound of her name. She raised her sad mask, tilting it toward him. The sockets trembled as though she regretted acknowledging him the moment she did.
Jax smirked wider, pulling the band taut. “Catch.”
Her eyes went wide, and she squeaked — a nervous, strangled sound — before throwing both ribbon-hands over her face.
And then, just as he was about to release, a voice exploded through the room.
“Good evening, my digital delights!”
The sudden pitch startled him. His fingers slipped.
The band snapped forward, the pen whistling through the air. It ricocheted off one wall, smacked another, rebounded off a chandelier, and finally shot across the room to land squarely in Zooble’s jagged side.
They jolted upright with a yelp. “The ?!??£ was that?!”
“Whoops,” Jax drawled, laughter spilling past his teeth. He leaned back, hands up in mock innocence. “Guess you’ve got yourself an extra limb now. Looks good on you. Balanced, even.”
Zooble hissed through their teeth, tugging the pen out with exaggerated effort. Gangle gasped and scrambled to their side, ribbons fussing around the jagged figure, apologising as though she could undo physics by hovering close enough.
Meanwhile, Caine floated high near the ceiling, hands twirling in grand arcs, eyes spirals of neon chaos. His grin never faltered, but there was a strange stiffness to it, like even he knew the timing of his entrance had landed poorly.
He scratched the back of his head with one oversized glove, letting out a single awkward chuckle before snapping his fingers. The pen vanished, reappearing neatly where Jax had plucked it from. The rubber band flopped limply onto the table.
“Now, now! No need for shenanigans when there are adventures ahead!” His booming voice bounced against the walls, layered with echo like it belonged to more than one mouth. “Yes, indeed! You’ve had a grand evening of recognition and reward, and what better way to follow it than with REST! I’ve got an award to shelve, after all, and my collection demands symmetry!”
A bubble drifted lazily beside him, its surface quivering with reflected light. The thing stared down at the group with that blank, too-wide smile.
“You must be jealous,” Bubble chimed, tone flat yet somehow piercing. “So very jealous.”
The silence in the room thickened for a moment, none of them answering.
“Of course they are!” Caine bellowed, twirling in place before snapping his fingers again. “But no more dawdling! Off we go! Sleep, recover, dream! Tomorrow we leap headfirst into delight!”
The floor yawned open beneath them.
Jax felt the drop like a kick to the stomach, stomach lurching as the room folded away, the couches, the desk, the chandeliers sucked into static. The others cried out, their voices overlapping in panic or complaint, but his only reaction was a laugh — sharp, breathless, carried into the void as the circus swallowed them whole again.
Reality stitched itself back together in a violent snap of colour and static. The ground slammed against their feet - not the plush couches of the lobby, not polished floors or marble décor, but the uneven tiles of the tent. The banners swayed overhead, illuminated by light sources that weren’t quite daylight and weren’t quite stars either, just hovering orbs that pulsed faintly, giving the place its surreal glow.
Pomni stumbled as she re-materialised, nearly pitching forward before Ragatha caught her arm. Her hat slipped forward, bells jingling like a cruel mockery of balance. She clutched at her chest, trying to breathe through the vertigo.
“Everytime,” she muttered, shaking her head. “Doesn’t matter how many times it happens, it still feels like—” She stopped herself, face tight, as though she didn’t want to put it into words.
“Like dying?” Zooble offered flatly, rubbing at their jagged side as if the phantom ache of the pen remained. “Yeah. We’re all thinking it.”
The words dropped heavier than intended, and for a beat no one replied.
Jax dusted off his chest like he’d just stepped off a train, unaffected by the transition. His grin was already back in place, sharp and unbothered. He stretched his arms over his head, joints cracking, and hummed like he’d been treated to a good nap instead of an interdimensional freefall.
“Aw, don’t be so dramatic. If you were actually dying, trust me, it’d be a whole lot messier.”
Zooble turned their mismatched glare on him, tired, irritable. “Thanks, Jax. Real comforting.”
He smirked, flicking a speck of dirt from his sleeve. “Hey, I live to serve.”
Ragatha helped Pomni steady herself, her ragdoll face arranging into that soft smile she tried to wear for everyone. But even she couldn’t keep the worry from her stitched eyes as she looked at her friend.
“You okay?” she asked quietly, guiding Pomni toward the edge of the ring.
Pomni nodded too fast, her hands fidgeting with the hem of her costume. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Just… fine.”
Ragatha gave her a longer look but didn’t press. She’d seen enough to know pushing Pomni usually backfired. Instead, she led her a little further, seating her on the circus steps, like grounding her back into something solid.
Meanwhile, Gangle fussed over Zooble, ribbons tangling as they tried to make their friend comfortable. “Do you feel sick? You don’t look sick. Do you want me to get you something? I don’t know what I’d even get—”
Zooble groaned, dragging a jagged hand down their mismatched face. “I’m fine. Just— stop fussing, alright?”
Gangle froze, ribbons stiff, the happy mask trembling faintly before tilting down. She backed off, muttering an apology, though her nervous glances didn’t stop.
Jax watched the exchange with an almost bored curiosity, his grin still plastered in place but his eyes sharper, cataloguing it all. Not that he cared - at least, that’s what he’d insist if asked - but the cracks between them were always worth noting.
“Whole lotta hand-holding tonight,” he said casually, stepping past them toward the ring’s centre. “What’s next? Group hugs? Kumbaya?”
Ragatha shot him a look, the kind of tired glare that carried more exasperation than anger. “You could try being quiet for five minutes.”
He flashed her a toothy smile. “And deprive you all of my charm? Not a chance.”
The tension hung thick, their exhaustion magnifying every sharp word. None of them wanted to give him the satisfaction of a fight, though, so the silence eventually swallowed the group again.
Above them, the tents lights dimmed slightly, a subtle cue that the “show” was officially over for the night. The grounds stretched outward in their familiar twisted logic - tents that shifted in shape if you stared too long, stalls filled with props from long-forgotten acts, the air itself humming faintly like static under skin.
It was home, in the loosest sense of the word.
Ragatha finally broke the silence, clapping her hands together in that overly bright way she sometimes used to patch holes. “Alright, everyone. It’s late. We should head to our rooms, get some rest. Tomorrow’s probably going to be… something.”
Pomni hesitated, then nodded, tugging at her hat as though hiding behind it. Zooble grumbled agreement, muttering about needing to “shut down” before they started glitching again. Gangle drifted close beside them, ribbons trailing, unwilling to stray too far.
One by one, they peeled away, each headed toward their respective quarters. Ragatha lingered a moment to make sure Pomni wasn’t about to collapse again, before ushering her along too.
That left Jax standing alone, hands shoved in his pockets. He watched them all file off, his grin never faltering, though his ears twitched faintly at the sudden quiet.
“Nighty-night, losers,” he called after them, voice carrying across the empty space.
No one answered.
He rolled his eyes, finally turning on his heel. His boots tapped against the floor as he sauntered off toward his own room. The circus was quieter at night - if “night” even existed here - the sounds of Caine’s antics finally fading into the background. It almost felt like the place could breathe again without his voice filling every corner.
Passing through the rows of tents, Jax slowed as he came near the cluttered, half-collapsed structure that belonged to Kinger. The makeshift fort was built from props and mismatched furniture, stacked precariously like a child’s idea of safety.
Inside, faint muttering carried through the gaps.
“Don’t worry, don’t worry, they won’t find you here, I’ve got you, yes, yes… all safe, all snug…”
The rustle of fabric. The soft chitter of bugs.
Jax paused, one ear flicking as he listened. Kinger’s voice was low but frantic, a ramble of reassurance to the skittering shapes that crawled along his walls. He chuckled to himself between words, the sound thin, worn, and tired.
Jax smirked faintly, shaking his head.
“Talking to bugs. Cute.”
He didn’t linger long. With a casual shrug, he shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and kept walking, leaving the fort and its whispers behind as the circus grounds stretched onward into their endless, broken quiet.
The hallway stretched on like an afterthought stitched to the main tent. The curtains at its entrance hung limp, swallowing up the faint glow of the circus ring as Jax pushed through. Inside, the air was still, almost suffocating, the kind of quiet that pressed in on your ears until even your own footsteps sounded too loud.
He sauntered, as always, because walking any other way felt like admitting something was wrong. Shoulders rolled back, hands sunk deep in his pockets, stride loose like he owned the place. But the further he went, the more the grin on his face wavered, tugged downward at the corners until finally it slipped away altogether.
By the time he reached his door, there was nothing left but the plain, neutral set of his mouth, his eyes narrowed with a tiredness he refused to show the others.
Jax leaned against the frame for a moment, letting out a slow breath through his nose. Then, finally, he pushed inside.
His room was no grand design - just a box like everyone else’s, shaped by whatever logic the circus used to decide these things. The walls shifted subtly, textured like canvas and wood that didn’t quite belong to either category. A single bed sat crooked against the corner, a dresser with drawers that stuck half-open, a lamp that hummed faintly when lit. It was livable, in the way a waiting room was livable.
He kicked the door shut behind him, shrugged his shoulders loose, and dragged a hand down his face. The grin didn’t come back. Not here.
“£?@?&...” he muttered under his breath, muffled into his palm.
The bed creaked as he dropped onto it, sprawling out with his arms spread wide, staring up at the ceiling. His ears twitched faintly as he listened to the hallway beyond, the dull shuffle of someone else’s footsteps passing, then silence again.
For a while, he didn’t move. Just laid there, letting the exhaustion seep in now that no one was watching.
But of course, his mind didn’t shut up. It circled back, uninvited, to earlier.
Pomni.
The way she’d snapped at him, lunged with that sudden sharpness like she actually believed she could shake something loose in him. Her voice cracking as she demanded why he hadn’t fought back.
And him, grinning, brushing it off, pretending it didn’t matter. Pretending she didn’t matter.
He rubbed at his eyes, dragging his palm hard enough to leave a phantom sting.
Why hadn’t he?
Normally, that was the game. Someone bit, he bit back harder. That’s how it worked. But when she’d pushed, when she’d called him out, he hadn’t taken the opening. Just stood there, smiling, letting her burn out instead of stoking the fire.
Jax shifted, rolling onto his side, one ear pressed flat against the pillow.
Entertainment. That was all they were. That’s what he told himself, what he told them. Puppets in his own personal show. The circus didn’t give him much, but it gave him that - reactions, drama, something to keep him from rotting in the corner like Kinger.
So why the hesitation? Why let the moment pass instead of twisting it, dragging her further into the game until she regretted ever raising her voice?
He scoffed, burying his face halfway into the pillow. “Doesn’t matter.”
But the thought wouldn’t leave. The more he tried to dismiss it, the more it gnawed. Pomni wasn’t like the others. She still fought back, even when she was clearly on the edge of cracking. She looked at him and actually saw something - not just the mask, not just the grin.
And for a flicker, when she’d lunged, it hadn’t been entertaining. It had been… something else.
Jax sat up abruptly, shaking his head, forcing his grin back on even if there was no one here to see it.
“Cute,” he muttered to the empty room, ears flicking back. “Real cute.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. The wood - or whatever passed for wood here - warped slightly if you looked too long. He traced a finger across the seam of two boards, scratching lightly at the illusion.
Entertainment. That’s all. That’s all it ever would be.
If Pomni abstracted tomorrow, he’d move on. He always did. That was the rule. You didn’t get attached, not to anyone. Not when the walls were littered with the shadows of those already gone, their rooms closed off, their names unspoken.
And yet…
He tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling again. His jaw clenched faintly.
Why didn’t he fight back?
The question lingered, heavier now. Not because he wanted an answer, but because he didn’t have one.
He got up again after only a minute on the bed, boots scuffing the uneven planks as he wandered across the room. Hands in pockets, shoulders loose, grin nowhere to be found. He paced, back and forth, until finally he slipped out into the hallway.
The corridor yawned in both directions, endless shadows and shut doors. Some marked. Some… crossed out.
He leaned against the wall, arms folded, ears twitching as he eyed the sealed rooms. They stared back like gravestones without names.
Kaufmo.
His mouth ticked up into a grin that didn’t meet his eyes. “Shoulda seen your face, man,” he said under his breath, voice pitched light and mocking. “One second cracking jokes, next second you’re spaghetti code. Real punchline, huh?”
He gave the doorframe a lazy tap with two fingers before moving on.
Queenie.
He whistled low. “Always thought you were too high and mighty for this dump. Guess the circus had other plans. Bet you abstracted in style, though - all crown and teeth.”
His ears flicked. He didn’t pause long.
Ribbit.
He chuckled, shaking his head. “Couldn’t hop away from this place fast enough, huh Buddy? Ribbit ribbit, BOINK, gone.”
His grin sharpened, but there was no one to laugh with him. No audience. The sound died quick.
He shoved his hands deeper in his pockets and kept walking, eyes flicking over the doors that still opened. The “living pieces.” His board.
Ragatha.
Polished doll, always trying to hold the group together with a threadbare smile. Sweet until she wasn’t. The way she looked at the others - caretaker, big sister, the glue. She played the role so hard you’d almost forget she was cracking inside. Almost. Jax snorted softly. She thought she was subtle. She wasn’t.
Zooble.
Sharp angles, sharper tongue. They never let him slide without throwing barbs back, and that was half the fun. A brick wall to bounce off. If Ragatha was the glue, Zooble was the filter - catching the BOINK before it spread too wide. He liked needling them, watching their patience thin, seeing how far he could push before they cracked.
Gangle.
Soft, twitchy, forever tangled in her ribbons. Easy target. Too easy, sometimes. Like swiping candy from a crying child. He told himself it was just for laughs, just filler between better scenes, but even he knew he leaned on her reactions more than he should. Because she always reacted. Every time.
Kinger.
The ghost in the corner. Lost in his fort of cardboard scraps, crown tilted like it weighed more than his head could handle. He was already gone in all the ways that mattered, even if his body still paced. Jax kept him around in his mind like a stage prop. Background noise. But sometimes, late at night, he caught himself listening to the man’s mutters. Bugs, nonsense, fragments. And sometimes… sometimes there were pieces of truth in there that slipped under his skin.
And then there was Pomni.
He stopped pacing.
Hands curled tight in his pockets, jaw clenched.
Pomni.
Fresh blood. Still kicking. Still clawing like she thought she could find a way out. She pushed back harder than the rest, too stubborn or too stupid to let herself sink quietly into the cycle. And worst of all - she called him out. Actually looked him in the eye and said what the others never dared.
Why hadn’t he fought back?
The question returned, unrelenting, gnawing in the silence. He pressed his palm flat against the wall, leaning there, ears twitching.
Normally he’d twist it. Throw her words back twice as sharp, grind her down until she cracked and gave him that wild-eyed look he loved. That was the game. That was the show. But with her? He hadn’t. He just… hadn’t.
He laughed once, short and humourless.
“£$£&" if I know.”
He turned, kicked the nearest doorframe lightly with his boot, and stalked back into his room.
The bed creaked under him again as he dropped onto it, rolling onto his back. His fingers tapped against his stomach, restless, his mind refusing to settle.
He thought of Pomni’s face. The way her voice shook when she lunged at him, like she wasn’t just angry - she was terrified. Not of him. Of this place. Of herself.
And he hadn’t played along.
Why?
He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, blocking out the ceiling, the flickering light. His teeth ground together as the question circled, faster, sharper.
Why didn’t he?
The silence pressed in again. His chest felt tight.
For once, he had no punchline.