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They’ve long since become accustomed to the all-encompassing quiet.
Once the others go on an adventure, Caine sees no need to do most things inside the circus, leaving Zooble inside a mockery of a compound. The lights are on, doors open and close if pushed, but no food or water appears inside the kitchen, no books or even just paper can be found in the common areas. The sun outside stops giggling and moving across the sky.
And over all of it, this oppressive silence presses against their senses from all sides. There is a difference in silence inside a single room, with people still bustling about elsewhere, and being the only living being to exist, in all of the Circus. When they stand still and hold their breath, there literally is no sound in the entirety of existence.
Like a mannequin posing as a human, the Circus becomes something so similar to an actual place that it instead crosses into the uncanny valley.
Zooble knows more than enough about that one.
Nothing about their body invites the feeling of dealing with an actual human. The others at least have somewhat humanoid features – with the exception of Kinger, and isn’t his fate a scary one to compare oneself to – soft fur or fabric, or even something resembling normal skin and clothes. Everything is so… incohesive, there is barely any layer between them and the Circus itself. There is nothing soft about Zooble’s body, nothing that invites a friendly touch. It is a prison for their mind, a private hell made out of hard plastic and elastomers.
It’s not that they want to be touched by the other inmates, per se. It’s just been so long. And it feels so desperately eerie to be so infinitely different from everyone else.
Caine offers a vast range of replacement parts, a never ending barrage of plastic items in strange forms, bright colours and inhumanity.
None of them fit. They might sometimes turn out useful, but none of them feel like Zooble’s body – only another LEGO brick in the structure that separates them from humanity. None of the others have removable parts. None of the others can be taken apart and rearranged. None of the others has been as much at the mercy of someone whose benevolence is without understanding at best. If he decided one day that they need three legs or no arms, they’d have no way to defend themself against being changed by him.
…might as well try something new.
They don’t dare take apart one of the mannequins Caine seems to love parading around like a sick reminder of a closer-to-human body than any of them could ever have. This feels too… clean, too sterile, too Caine. But other parts of the circus…? Fair play in Zooble’s mis-matched eyes.
Right now, they’re looking for something, anything, that could resemble a human hand. Fingers. Doesn’t even have to be five. They’d take Mickey Mouse gloves, anything that won’t remind them like a punch to the face of their state every time they look down.
Instead, they’ve found… this.
It’s a room that looks a bit like what they’d imagine a clothier would use, a sewing machine, colourful buttons and ribbons – no fabric, a weirdly fitting, Caine-like oversight – and a tailor’s dummy.
The pull is strange, longing suffused with rejection.
It’s not a mannequin. It’s not Caine-coded. It’s white, or pale-gray, a deviation from their usual colours, but also like a mockery of actual skin colour. It doesn’t have a belly button or pronounced ribs, and instead bulges in the wrong places.
But they’ve dealt with that before, in a human body. It might even be a remind–
A sharp pain ripples through their hand where they slammed it against the wall, immediately vanishing once the Circus notices and repairs. There. They can still feel pain. That can be their reminder of being alive. They don’t need to try and rewrite actual human uncomfortable feelings into something positive.
And yet… they’ve dealt with a body that didn’t fit before, this thing is barely pronounced, and maybe, maybe that could be better? They finally dare touch the stupid thing, try to imagine what it would feel like to have soft skin, a belly that can be patted, the curvature of a normal human body from ribs to–
Something just moved.
Zooble pulls their hand back, stumbles a step away from the dummy while they frantically turn around. Nothing inside the Circus ever attacked them, but… but there also shouldn’t be anything here with them!
Red ribbons – they could have sworn there wasn’t anything but thread and buttons a minute ago – are floating through the air, weaving this way and that. It doesn’t seem directed at them, and yet Zooble feels safer retreating towards the door. They do not want to get caught up in whatever stupid thing Caine decided to put them through now.
It takes a mask to slowly form out of thin air for them to realise their mistake. This is not another NPC or a game planned by the ringmaster just for them.
This is another human, just arriving at the Circus!
Zooble hates that the first thing they feel is happiness – someone new, someone with new experiences to talk about, a person they don’t know yet, just change. Sorrow follows at a distance, the knowledge of yet another person trapped inside this unchanging hell.
And yet, it’s not like they can change this person’s fate. They might as well be welcoming and hope the newcomer is nicer than Jax and his gang.
The ribbons have finished forming a body – barely more human-formed than they are, Zooble notices with quiet disdain for the AI deciding on these – and for a fraction of a second, they just stare at it, at the serene smile so unfitting for this situation. Red ribbons, white mask, black details. Very dramatic, very obviously theatre-related. They wonder if this new inmate might be an actor–
…and then, the newly formed person stops levitating and instead falls to the ground with the slightest thump, betraying their barely existent weight. The mask hits the floor just a tiny bit later, splintering on impact.
Zooble flinches in horror – did this new person’s face just break? – at the pieces of porcelain scattering. They breathe out a quiet sigh at the realisation there’s another mask hiding underneath the first one.
Nothing happens for a few seconds, the mess of ribbons on the floor moving in uncoordinated ways, clearly trying to make sense of a body that doesn’t. And when they finally manage to lift their head, Zooble’s eyes meet those of the second mask, already crying. The realisation comes a split second before the soft gasp – if they struggle to look at themself, what must they look like to a newcomer?
Shit, they’re going to think that Zooble is the one behind… all of this. They remember the terror they felt upon first arriving here, even though Ribbit did her best to calm them during the resulting panic attack. They always felt part of why those first hours were so bad was because Ribbit’s best is rarely what Zooble considers good enough. Well, this is their chance to do better by the newcomer.
Luckily, they have years of experience with calming down scared clients, no matter their state.
Zooble crouches before the other person, trying to give them as much space as possible. “Hello,” they say, and then close their eyes for a second over how stupid it sounds to themself. But they’ve got the other person’s attention, and there is no screaming or crying yet, so they continue. “I know this looks scary, but no one’s going to hurt you.”
“Where– what–” the new person stutters in a feminine voice, mask craning to the side and obviously trying to locate their own body. The ribbons move as if they’re trying to push themself up. The quiet room echoes the desperate gasps.
This body makes it easy to suppress normal human reactions. If Zooble had a mouth, they would have grimaced that ‘what are you’ probably came before ‘who are you’ in another human’s mind. Instead, they ensure that every part of them stays relaxed. “I know you are very confused and probably scared. I didn’t bring you here, but I will explain everything I know. Okay?”
It works. The other person mumbles “okay” automatically and stops trying to form new questions for a few seconds. They have found their right ‘hand’ and are now staring at it, triangular trimmings moving slightly. The sniffling hasn’t stopped yet, but when they turn back to Zooble, at least part of the fear of them seems to be gone. “This… this isn’t the body I'm used to,” they state, surprisingly composed. “I’m not… whatever you are. I’m a human, a human woman.”
Oh, fuck Caine, forcing them to break her heart a second time. “I’m sorry to tell you, but I’m a human too.”
There is a short pause, and then the newcomer offers in a timid voice: “Is this just what our bodies look like to us in this world?”
That sounds like something out of a movie or an anime. Zooble shrugs. If that’s what she needs to get through the initial shock, they’ll let her believe it for now. “Something like that, yeah. Are you hurt? I saw you fall.”
“No, I… I’m just… I can’t move properly.”
“I can imagine.” Zooble looks the mess of ribbons over. They can clearly see the contours of a humanoid body. “I got used to it pretty quickly, though, so I’m sure it’ll get better soon. Can you tell me your na–” They stop themself, but it’s too late. Damn their ingrained phrases, they have triggered another bout of sniffling.
“I… I can’t remember,” the woman whimpers. The semi-purposeful movement stops, replaced by a trembling in her limbs. As oppressive as the silence was, Zooble would take it over hearing someone cry.
“It’s okay, no-one remembers at first,” they blurt out. Ugh. That sentence just barely avoided becoming a lie. Distract her before she starts crying again– They barrel on: “Anyway, I’m Zooble.”
For a few seconds, the woman in front of them doesn’t react, clearly still trying to find something within her that is no longer there. Then, she inhales deeply and gives them a watery smile. “N-nice to meet you, Zooble.”
They can’t even smile back at her. But dwelling on that doesn’t help, so they push the thought away. “I’ll tell you what I know about this place. But maybe not on the floor. D’you think I can help you up?” They extend their left hand. Even claw-like, it looks like something the other might recognise, unlike the prongs they’re currently wearing on their right side.
For a few seconds, the woman just stares at it, unmoving. Zooble tries to imagine what’s going on behind the porcelain mask – fear? Pity? Dis–
But then, the face lifts, and when their eyes meet, Zooble finds something unexpected inside the other person’s gaze: Recognition. The tears don’t stop, but there are no more sobs. The only sound is the quiet shifting of ribbons as she puts her hand in theirs.