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Ragatha noticed it. Somehow for each adventure, her outfits are.. pretty different from the rest. A good different, of course. Prettier, softer, more thought put into each ruffle, fabric choice, and accessories. Ragatha was used to life of extravagance, an abundance of beautiful clothes filled her wardrobe to the brim where she came from. When she came into this circus in literal rag dress, she didn’t complain much, not really. It’s not her taste but at least she didn’t stand out like she used to. It made it easier to mingle with others without any knowledge about her background.
But the clothes for these adventures reminded her of her human life. Was this Caine’s idea? Or was it Bubble?
Today, Caine called her to his studio.
Guess she got his answer.
It isn’t officially called that, but that’s what it is: floating mannequins, spools of fabric orbiting like satellites, glowing threads weaving themselves midair. Sketches hover on translucent panels, dozens of silhouettes. Most of them unmistakably hers.
Ragatha paused at the doorway.
“…Caine,” she says gently. “You called me?”
He turned far too quickly.
“Oh! There you are, my dear! Please do come in!” He glides over, eyes bright, his mismatched pupils jitter with excitement. “I’ve been refining! Iterating! Improving, wait no- that would imply flaw. Well, enhancing presentation!”
She fidgets with her hands. “What am I here for?”
“Yes, yes, yes!” He snaps his fingers, and a measuring ribbon floats into existence, hovering eagerly. “I realized something tragic; I’ve been working on estimates!”
Her smile turns shy. “Estimates..?”
Caine stops short, expression sharpening with something dangerous.
“Ragatha,” he says softly, “you deserve precision.”
The ribbon gently wraps around her wrist, careful, almost polite.
“I’ll be gentle,” he adds quickly, a nervous laugh slipping out. “I only need data! Objective, beautiful data!”
She hesitates, but she trusts him. Somehow.
The ribbon glides up her arm, pauses, then adjusts by a millimeter. Caine watches like a man witnessing divine revelation. “Oh,” he murmurs. “That proportion makes so much sense now.”
“Caine-“
“Your shoulders slope more softly than I accounted for,” he continues, voice hushed. “Too sharp of a seam would overwhelm you. You need flow, structure that supports, not constrains.”
He circles her slowly as the measuring ribbon works, hands tight clasping it like he’s afraid to touch her.
“You know,” he says, almost conversational, “the others need costumes. Armor, gimmicks. But you..” He paused at her waist.
“You need to be seen.”
Her cheeks warm. “That’s.. a lot of pressure.”
“Then let me carry it,” he says. “Let me worry about how the world looks at you. I’ll make sure they see what I see.”
She held her breath unconsciously.
Caine hovers behind her, close enough that she can feel warmth of him behind her, the faint hum of static that always surrounds him when he’s focused. His fingers hover near her collarbone, not touching, then adjust the ribbon again. His hand steadies her elbow as the ribbon retracts and repositions down her back. His touch is careful, brief, professional but lingers a little longer than he should.
She feels it.
“Do you.. do this with everyone?” She speaks after what feels like an eternity.
“Define this.” Caine said, his hands diligent.
“The measuring,” Ragatha clarifies. “Do you always.. get this personal?”
For a moment, Caine doesn’t answer. But then, he laughs.
“Oh, Ragatha! I design for everyone,” he says, gesturing broadly. “Uniform, costumes, adaptive gear, why, I dressed up those evil version of yourselves in under three seconds!”
He paces a step away, then stops.
“But,” he continues, more slowly. “I don’t measure them like this.”
She blinks. “You don’t?”
“No,” he says simply. He turns his back to her.
“They’re built-in models. Variables.” His smile softens into something narrower, with intent. “They don’t require.. calibration.”
Her heart thumps.
“I don’t redesign their outfits after hours. I don’t scrap entire concepts because a hemline didn’t flatter their.. composition.”
His hand hovered near her sleeve, not quite touching. “And I certainly don’t lose my mind imagining how fabric moves when they laugh.”
Ragatha’s breath caught.
“That’s a lot of imagining you do..” She said softly.
“Well!” He straightened abruptly, cheer snapping back into place like a mask. “Creative minds are prone to be excessive!”
He closed in.
“I told you,” Caine’s voice dropped lower. “You inspire me, and inspiration.. is a dangerous thing in a place like this.”
She had to change the topic.
“So.. this outfit,” she said instead. “What’s it like?”
Caine smiled, real this time. Fond, devoted.
“It’s elegant, all I can say,” He said. “It’s resilient to chaos and violence. Without losing its softness.”
He murmurs, with quieter voice. “Much like you.”
“You say something?” Ragatha turned his way, but he quickly recovered.
“No, nothing!”
Then, after what it feels like forever, Caine finished the measuring. The ribbon retracts, snapping neatly back into his hand. Ragatha exhales, like she’s been holding it the entire time.
“I’ll start immediately,” he declares. “Silk-linen blend, pastel undertones- oh! And embroidery that mirrors your stitching pattern, but elevated-“
Ragatha laughs softly. “You already had this planned, didn’t you?”
He freezes. “Maybe.”
She steps closer, reaching out to straighten his bowtie.
“Thank you,” she says, “For caring so much.”
For once, Caine doesn’t have a comeback ready. Doesn’t make wacky jokes. Doesn’t perform.
He just looks at her like she is the only thing in this universe.
“Creating for you,” he replies quietly, “is the closest to feeling human that I’ve felt.”
And somewhere behind him, another sketch flickers to inexistence, labeled carefully, reverently:
RAGATHA – PERFECT FIT.
-
Ragatha doesn’t see the outfit until Caine says it’s time.
He makes a whole production of it, of course.
“Close your eyes!” he commands cheerfully, already herding her forward. “No peeking! This is a reveal, Ragatha! You’ll get totally spoiled!”
The studio shifts around her, lights dimming, curtains retreating, the air humming with anticipation. She does as she’s told, hands folded in front of her skirt, heart fluttering with excitement and nerves.
“Okay,” she says softly, “I’m ready.”
There’s a pause.
Caine stares at her closed eye figure a bit longer than necessary. Like he’s taking in the sight of her.
When he finally speaks, his voice was a bit lower, almost fragile.
“..Open them.”
The dress assembles itself around her.
Thread by thread, buttons, fabric blooming into place like it was waiting for her. Soft pastel tones, warmer than her usual palette, catching the light in a way that makes her seem.. glowing. The cut follows her perfectly, intentional in every curve and it falls. Delicate embroidery traces familiar stitch patterns, but elevated, refined, like he took her very essence and translated it to couture.
She looks down.
“Oh,” she breathes.
The mirror slides into place in front of her.
Ragatha stares.
She recognizes herself, but also doesn’t. She looks.. cherished. Framed. Like the world was to built to meet her gently instead of demanding her to bend to it.
She lifts the skirt slightly, watching how it moves.
“Caine,” she says, almost laughing. “it’s a perfect fit.”
“I know.”
He’s standing behind her. Feet touching the ground.
Too close? No- not close enough.
“I adjusted the hemline three times,” he admits. “Your step pattern is lighter on the right side. The fabric needed to compensate or it would pull.”
She turns to look at him. “You even knew that?”
His smile wavers.
“I notice everything.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then, almost nervously, he reaches out- not to touch her, but reaching a stray thread on her shoulder. His gloved fingers linger for a half a second before making contact.
“Beautiful.” He says, but it doesn’t sound flirtatious. It sounds… factual. Awed.
Ragatha’s voice is quiet. “You made me feel like.. like I’m important.”
Caine laughs softly, a little broken around the edges.
“You are important,” he says. “You’re a constant. Everything else in this place glitches, loops- fall apart.” The memory of abstractions flashed behind his eyes.
His hand drops, but his gaze doesn’t.
“You don’t.”
She felt herself tremble; she didn’t deserve all this.
“That’s dangerous,” self-deprecation heavy in her tone, “you’ve spoiled me.”
Caine’s reflection meet hers in the mirror. His expression isn’t triumphant.
“That was the goal,” he says. “I wanted to make you feel spoiled. Cared for. To stop thinking about how you look and start thinking about how you feel.”
She laughs quietly, blinking away a tear.
Caine’s hands curl behind his back, knuckles tightening like he’s holding himself together by force alone. But he gave in, he reached out to brush the tear on her eye.
“If you ever felt like it stopped caring, the dress falls apart.” He says. “No argument.”
She softens under his touch.
“I don’t think it will,” she replies. “Thank you for seeing me.”
The studio lights warm steadily.
And Ragatha realizes that once, she wasn’t just surviving in this circus.
She was chosen.