Chapter Text
After the unexpected success of Zooble’s bar adventure, Caine had graciously, and somewhat surprisingly, allowed a small, permanent lounge to be located right in the heart of the Circus as a communal hangout for its denizens. It was a strange, liminal space that smelled faintly of static and artificial vanilla, Caine’s best guess at what “relaxing ambiance” felt like. The lighting was perpetually dim, bathed in the hum of neon signs that didn’t advertise anything specific, just generic shapes like “BEVERAGE” and “FUN TIME.” The bar was used relatively frequently by almost all of the circus members as an excuse to get to know their fellow humans, alongside serving as an excuse for Caine to try his best to “buddy up” with his beloved troupe. He would often manifest behind the counter, juggling glowing bottles or offering “digital drinks” that tasted like spicy static electricity, much to Zooble’s mounting annoyance.
One night, following an uneventful yet strangely endearing award show that Caine had orchestrated, the bar felt unusually peaceful. Zooble and Gangle sat together in a corner booth, the neon light of a purple “Caine-Cola” sign casting a flickering, bruise-colored hue over their mismatched forms. They sipped on pixelated drinks, discussing the Circus and the hazy, fragmented memories of their previous lives before everything went wrong. For a few rare moments, the oppressive existential dread was replaced by something resembling genuine connection; they chatted, giggling and smiling at each other as the night grew longer and the Circus’s artificial sun stayed tucked away in the Void.
Just as the two were beginning to stand up, preparing to head back to their respective rooms before the next chaotic “adventure” began, the heavy swinging doors of the bar creaked open with a synthesized groan. The comfortable silence of the room was immediately punctured as Ragatha walked in. Her usual composed, “big sister” demeanor was nowhere to be found. Her yarn hair was a tangled nest of red loops, her signature dress was wrinkled as if she’d been sitting on the floor for hours, and her single button eye seemed to be twitching with a rhythmic, mechanical frustration.
She didn’t head for the booths or offer her usual cheerful greeting. Instead, she marched straight to the bar and slumped onto a stool, her felt hands gripping the edge of the counter so hard the digital wood began to clip through her mitted hands, sending tiny showers of brown pixels cascading to the floor. Zooble and Gangle exchanged a worried glance, the lightheartedness of their conversation vanishing instantly. It wasn’t often that Ragatha let the mask slip, but tonight, the “Cheerful One” of the group looked like she was one minor inconvenience away from a total system crash.
“Hey, Rags… Having a rough night? What did he do now?” Zooble asked, slipping behind the bar to polish a glass, looking earnestly at the ragdoll for her response. Zooble hated Jax as much as anyone, but it was known by all that Ragatha experienced the worst of his carnage. Thus, this level of visible fraying could only really be coming from one place, at least, that’s what they thought.
Ragatha groaned, a long, drawn-out sound of exhaustion, before looking up at the mismatched human. “It’s not him… I mean… It’s just…” She paused, relaxing her hands for a moment, waiting for the textures of the counter to load back in properly. She tapped the table sharply, nudging Zooble for a cocktail. As Zooble got the hint and began working on the drink, Ragatha continued her thought, her voice dropping an octave. “It’s just… Everything is so complicated with her.” She remarked, a heavy gloom surfacing on her face as her previous frustration faded into something softer, sadder.
Zooble and Gangle gave each other a knowing look as Zooble prepared her drink, the sound of ice clinking against glass filling the silence. Gangle made her presence known through her timid, crackly voice, leaning forward so her ribboned body spooled onto the table. “Are… Are you talking about Pomni?”
“Yes!” Ragatha expressed rather loudly, shooting her arms in the air. The frustration surfaced again, her little outburst prompting Gangle to let out a slight whimper and recoil at the unexpected noise. Zooble finally finished her cocktail; they had crafted a Cherry Manhattan, a rather impressive drink to make given their limited resources, the liquid glowing a deep, dangerous crimson. They placed it in front of Ragatha, who didn’t even say thank you before she immediately took a sip, the digital liquid vanishing into the Void of her felt mouth.
Zooble and Gangle once again looked at each other nervously; this behavior was very out of character for Ragatha’s usual optimistic schtick. They were naturally worried but also undeniably curious about what was causing such a seismic shift in demeanor. “Listen, Rags, it’s obvious you’re a bit… frustrated… What’s going on with you and Pomni?” Zooble asked inquisitively, already having to prepare another drink as Ragatha guzzled her martini down with impressive speed.
Ragatha took the drink from her lips and placed it down on the bar surface with a hollow thud, spinning the glass with one of her limp fingers, pondering the thought before sheepishly answering. “Well, it’s not… what’s happening, it’s what’s… not happening.”
Gangle perked up, her Tragedy Mask momentarily seeming less tragic, almost in awe that one of her secret ships may have been coming true right before her eyes. She beamed brightly, her ribbons wiggling with excitement, much to Ragatha’s embarrassment.
“Ugh! No… It’s… It’s nothing like that…” Ragatha stammered, flushing a deeper shade of pink. She finished her drink and, seconds later, received another from Zooble, which she began working on immediately. “It’s just I…” She hesitated, the digital alcohol beginning to slur her speech code just slightly. “I’ve been here for her since day one! And yet, despite me being here, always me being here, despite us reconnecting and being… friends… I just… I don’t know. I feel like she doesn’t want to be around me.” Ragatha slumped in her chair, her head resting on her arms. Gangle and Zooble leaned in to listen to Ragatha’s story further, clearly invested in the drama.
“What makes you say that?” Zooble inquired, resting their elbows on the sticky bar top.
The response caused Ragatha to look up at them, her non-button eye wide and glistening with unshed digital tears. She hadn’t expected them to be paying that much attention. “Oh… uhm… Well, it’s just… After the award show, we talked. A real talk. We apologized to each other for how we’ve acted. I admitted I was too pushy, and she admitted she was too distant. It felt like… like a breakthrough, you know? Like we were finally getting somewhere.”
She took a massive gulp of the fresh Manhattan, swaying slightly on the stool. “But then… right when the moment got real, right when I reached out to just… comfort her… she looked at me like I was a... Like, I was something terrifying. She just froze up, mumbled something about ‘needing space,’ and ran off. She didn’t walk away, guys. She sprinted.”
“Maybe she’s just… shy?” Gangle suggested softly, trying to inject some optimism into the gloomy atmosphere. “In the stories, the hero always runs away when their feelings get too big! It’s a classic trope! Maybe her heart rate spiked, and she didn’t know how to process the… um… the romance of it all?”
Ragatha let out a wet, bitter chuckle. “Romance? Gangle, look at us. We’re toys in a toybox. I don’t think she’s running because she’s swooning. I think she looks at me and sees the Circus. I think I’m just a walking, talking reminder of the nightmare she can’t wake up from. Why would she want to get close to the person who represents the cage?”
Zooble sighed, the sound grating like static friction against a microphone. They wiped the counter down with a slow, deliberate motion, their mismatched eyes fixed on the miserable doll. “You’re spiraling, Rags. And you’re projecting. Pomni is a nervous wreck on a good day. She isn’t running from you. She’s running from attachment. Think about it: if she gets attached to you, she suddenly has something to lose. That’s terrifying in a place like this.”
Ragatha blinked slowly, her brain struggling to parse the logic through the heavy, pixelated haze of the alcohol. The world was beginning to haze around the edges of her vision, and Zooble’s face seemed to be duplicating slightly to the left. “So… you don’t think she hates me?”
“I think she’s terrified,” Zooble stated bluntly, their voice softening just a fraction. They slid the glowing bottle of digital spirits casually across the counter, pushing it just out of Ragatha’s reach. “And I think you need to stop trying to force a narrative where you’re the villain of her story. … give her a minute.”
Ragatha looked up at Zooble, wanting to believe their words, but a wave of indignity washed over her, battling with the booze for dominance. She scowled, her non-button eye drooping half-shut, and reached for her glass to suck the last few drops of neon-red liquid from the bottom before slamming the empty vessel against the bar top. “Space! As if she needs m—hic—more space…” Ragatha hiccuped, the sound accompanied by a tiny visual glitch that briefly scrambled her mouth texture. She slumped forward, laying her entire torso across the sticky bar top, cheek pressed against the cold, simulated mahogany.
“All I’ve given her is space! The whole Void is nothing but space! I want her to give me something back. I want… just… anything!” She let her head plop heavily onto her folded arms, a picture of pathetic, tangled despair. “I just want her to look at me without lookin’ like she’s gonna throw up...”
“W-Well, Ragatha…” Gangle chimed in, her voice crackling softly. She smiled down at the doll’s slumped form, though there was a knowing, gentle quality to it. Ragatha was rarely a drinker; they hadn’t seen her this unraveled since the chaotic trek to Spudsey’s. “I understand how you feel. This circus… this world…” Gangle trailed off, staring longingly down at her own drink, a blue fizz that had barely been touched. A soft blush, the color of rose quartz, began to emanate across her porcelain mask. Her ribbons coiled nervously on the tabletop. “It’s… lonely. And wanting companionship is something very… very normal.”
Gangle wasn’t looking at Ragatha anymore. Her painted eyes flicked upward, locking briefly with Zooble’s mismatched gaze before darting away in a flurry of shy embarrassment. The air between the ribbon and the mix-and-match toy grew thick with unsaid words, a private frequency that was lost entirely on the drunk ragdoll between them.
Ragatha groaned, hoisting her torso up from the bar top with the grace of a wet sack of potatoes. She swayed backward, the room spinning violently around her, and nearly tipped her stool over. She managed to catch herself on the edge of the counter with a clumsy, felt-handed grip, knocking a coaster onto the floor. She beamed messily at Gangle, her head lolling to the side. “Thank you, hic, Gangle! You unnerstand! It just gets soooo lonely! Especially at night, in an empty bed…”
The romantic implication of Gangle’s words flew wildly over Ragatha’s head, but Zooble couldn’t help but let out a dry chuckle. They had never seen the usually poised Ragatha this messy; for someone so heartbroken, she was accidentally being very funny, her usual articulation replaced by a mushy, vowel-heavy drawl.
“Ugh… this is SO unfaaaair…” Ragatha mumbled, her hand snake-like and uncoordinated as she reached blindly for the bottle Zooble had moved.
“Nope. That’s it. You’re cut off,” Zooble announced, their voice firm. They deftly swapped the alcohol for a glass of ice water, sliding it into Ragatha’s hand.
Ragatha swigged it without noticing the difference, clearly too far gone to taste the lack of static burn. She slammed the water glass down, splashing liquid onto her dress. “You guys are right. You’re sho right.”
Zooble watched her, realizing a bit too late that they had perhaps over-served the lightweight. They let out a sharp huff of air, leaning over the counter to command Ragatha’s drifting attention. “Rags, look. Relationships, of any kind, are difficult. They require two people to communicate and actually discuss what’s in their heads. That’s just how they work.” Zooble grabbed a rag and began cleaning a glass absent-mindedly, their gaze drifting back to Gangle, their voice dropping into an almost tender register. “You clearly have… something… going on. And you two should really talk about it. No more hiding.”
Zooble looked back at Ragatha, their tone sharpening back into practical advice. “She’s clearly still adjusting to this f—HONK!—ing nightmare, so the best thing you can do is give her some time, and then just talk about your feelings. Plain and simple.”
Ragatha sat there, blinking. Her processor was buffering. She replayed Zooble’s words in her head through a reverb filter: Talk about it… No more hiding… Talk about your feelings.
Somewhere in the tangled yarn of her mind, a spark ignited. She wasn’t hearing “be patient.” She was hearing a call to action.
“Commun-ni-cation…” Ragatha whispered, slurring the syllables together. Her eye widened with a manic intensity. “I need to… I need to go tell her. No more hiding. I’m gonna go commun-ni-cate right now!”
She tried to stand up with a burst of heroic energy, but her legs had apparently decided to fall asleep. Her knees buckled immediately, and she pitched forward.
“Whoa there, hotshot!” Zooble was around the bar in a flash, catching Ragatha under the arm before she could faceplant into the floorboards.
Gangle was there a second later, wrapping a ribbon gently around Ragatha’s other side to steady her. “Oh dear..Ragatha, I think you need to lie down..”
“I’m fine! I’m totally finne!” Ragatha insisted, though her head was lolling back onto Zooble’s shoulder and her feet were dragging. “I gotta go find Pomni! I gotta.. g–hic–go..”
“Yeah, you’re not going anywhere by yourself,” Zooble grunted, hoisting the doll up. They looked at Gangle with a weary half-smile. “Grab her other arm, Gangle. We’re walking her back.”
“O-Okay!” Gangle chirped, happy to help.
Together, the two of them began to drag the stumbling, muttering Ragatha toward the door.
“You guys are the best…” Ragatha slurred, her words muffled against Zooble’s shoulder. “But seriously… I’m gonna tell her. I’m gonna really communi–commu–.” She struggles to finish her thought, the word “communicate” having too many syllables for her to articulate it fully.
“Sure you are, Rags,” Zooble said dryly as they kicked the bar doors open. “But first, let’s try to get you to your room without you throwing up on the carpet.”
They navigated out of the bar and back towards the circus halls that housed their rooms. They walked slowly, at points basically dragging Ragatha across the circus grounds, not a particularly difficult feat considering her insides were made of cotton and determination. The walk back was rather silent, at least for Ragatha; her non-existent ears were picking up a low-level hum, like a fridge running in an empty room, while her companions chatted softly above her head. She let out wet, fabric-muffled hiccups, trying to coordinate her feet to move despite the spinning, hazy Circus that surrounded her. The walls seemed to breathe in and out, the colors saturating and desaturating in rhythm with her own erratic pulse.
Eventually, the trio drifted to a halt in front of a door emblazoned with a familiar, wide-eyed visage. Ragatha squinted, her head lolling back as she pointed a shaking, peach-mitted finger at the wood.
“Hey… That’s m—hic—me…” She looked up, seeing her own cartoonish design staring back at her with a permanent, vacuous smile. She let out a little drunken chuckle, her head bobbing loose on her shoulders. “Golly, I-I loook funny… do I really look that… flat?”
“You look great, Rags. You’re a regular beauty queen,” Zooble deadpanned, balancing Ragatha’s weight as they reached out to turn the knob. The door creaked open, revealing the familiar, cozy interior of Ragatha’s room. It was a haven of soft fabrics and sewing kits, smelling faintly of lavender and, of course, housing her large piano in the center, right next to her bed. But to Ragatha’s altered perspective, the room looked like it was tilting at a forty-five-degree angle.
“Alright, payload delivered,” Zooble grunted. They maneuvered Ragatha toward the bed, which looked less like furniture and more like a soft, inviting abyss. With a synchronized heave, Zooble and Gangle deposited the doll onto the mattress. Ragatha didn’t so much sit as she did collapse, her limbs splaying out in unnatural, floppy angles that only a ragdoll could find comfortable.
Gangle hovered anxiously, her ribbons fluttering as she reached out to straighten Ragatha’s dress and tug a quilt over her legs. “T-There you go! Snug as a bug!” Gangle chirped, patting Ragatha’s knee. “You just need a good sleep. You’ll feel much less… loopy..in the morning.”
Zooble stood at the foot of the bed, hands on their hips, looking down at the heap of red yarn and blue dress. “Serious talk, Rags. Stay here. No wandering off tonight, you need to rest to make sure your head isn’t killing you tomorrow.”
Ragatha blinked up at them, the ceiling swirling above her like a bad texture map. “Sleep… right. Sleep.” She gave a loose, floppy salute that missed her forehead entirely and hit her own nose. “Roger that, Zooble.”
“Good,” Zooble nodded, satisfied. They turned to Gangle, jerking their thumb toward the door.
Ragatha lay perfectly still, her single non-button eye wide open, staring at a patch of the ceiling as she listened to the sounds of their departure. She heard the soft swish of Gangle’s ribbon body, the heavy clank of Zooble’s mismatched footsteps, and finally, the click of the light switch plunging the room into semi-darkness.
“Goodnight, Ragatha!” Gangle called out sweetly from the hallway.
“Night, Rags,” Zooble added, their voice already fading.
The door clicked shut, the latch catching with a finality that echoed in the quiet room. Ragatha listened intently, holding her breath, as the footsteps retreated down the hall.
Clank… swish… clank… swish…
The sounds grew fainter and fainter until the ambient hum of the Circus swallowed them.
Silence reclaimed the room.
But Ragatha didn’t close her eye. Instead, the gears in her cotton-stuffed head began to turn with a frantic, drunken momentum. The advice from the bar was still bouncing around her skull like a rubber ball in a small room. Talk about it. No more hiding. Communicate.
“Sleep?” Ragatha whispered to the empty room, a mischievous, lopsided grin spreading across her face as she pushed herself up on her elbows. The world tilted violently, but she ignored it. “I can’t sleep… I have a mission. Zooble said… Zooble said to go tell her.”
She giggled, swinging her legs over the side of the bed with a reckless momentum that nearly sent her sliding straight onto the floor. She wasn’t staying put. She was going to communicate, and she was going to do it now.
Upon trying to stand, she promptly fell back onto her bed with a muffled oomph. Gosh, she really was done. Her head was spinning like a carousel gone off the rails, and her legs felt less like structural supports and more like overcooked noodles. For a long moment, she lay there, staring up at her ceiling where the shadows seemed to dance in low-resolution patterns. She blinked, trying to clear the static from her vision, before she gritted her teeth and made a second attempt. This time, with the help of a desperate grip on her nightstand, she succeeded.
Left. Right. She moved toward the door, her balance shifting dangerously with every step. Left. Right. She reached for the knob, her head angled down as if her neck had given up on the exhausting task of supporting the weight of her head. Her yarn hair draped over her face like a red velvet curtain, obscuring her vision until she clumsily brushed it aside.
She turned the knob and stumbled out into the hallway. The ever-bright, candy-colored lights of the corridor hit her like a physical blow, blinding her for a moment and causing her to squint her one good eye in protest. She did a slow, clumsy head swivel, the world smearing in a trail of neon colors behind her gaze. To her relief, the hallway was a ghost town. No Caine, no Jax, no one was outside of their rooms to witness the “Ever Cheerful Ragatha” stumbling with digital intoxication.
The walk to Pomni’s room felt like a trek across a shifting desert. The hallway seemed to stretch and warp, the checkered floorboards rising and falling like waves on a sea of linoleum. Every few steps, Ragatha found herself leaning heavily against the wall, her felt shoulder dragging along the wallpaper with a soft, scratching sound.
“P-Pomni,” she whispered to the empty air, her voice a pitch-shifted slur. “Gonna... gonna have a real talk. A ‘fessional talk.”
She finally reached the door with the jester’s frantic, wide-eyed face on it. To Ragatha’s blurred vision, the cartoon Pomni on the door looked even more worried than usual, as if the drawing itself knew this was a terrible idea. Ragatha leaned her forehead against the cool wood of the door, her breathing coming in shallow, ragged puffs of static. She stayed there for a second, gathering the scattered fragments of her courage—and her coordination.
Raising a shaky, heavy hand, she didn’t just knock; she let her fist fall against the wood in a series of uneven thuds that echoed far too loudly in the silent hall.
“Pomni?” she called out, her voice cracking. “Pomni... you in there? I... I have some commun-ni-cation for you. It’s... hic... it’s very important.”
Ragatha leaned her forehead against the cool, painted wood of the door, her knees knocking together like wooden blocks. The heavy, irregular thuds of her fist seemed to resonate through the entire hallway, sounding much louder in her own ears than they actually were. She waited, her non-button eye drifting shut as she focused on the rhythmic thrum-thrum of her digital heart.
From the other side of the door, a faint, muffled groan emanated, the sound of someone being dragged unceremoniously from the depths of a much-needed sleep. There was a rustle of sheets, a soft thump of feet hitting the floor, and then the sound of hesitant footsteps approaching.
The door creaked open just a crack, and Pomni peered out. Her jester hat was tilted precariously to one side, one of its bells dipping over her face, and her pupils were wide and frantic, darting around as if searching for a hidden trap.
“Ragatha?” Pomni’s voice was small and raspy with sleep. “What... what’s going on? Is there an emergency? Did Caine find a new—”
“Pomni!” Ragatha’s face lit up with a sudden, radiant beam of joy that threatened to tip her over. She let out a small, bubbly giggle and lunged forward, not to attack, but simply because her center of gravity had vanished. She caught herself on the doorframe, leaning her shoulder heavily against it as she looked down at the smaller jester. “There you are! My favorite... my favorite jester. I was jus’ tellin’ the others... we need to... we need to talk.”
Pomni froze, her hands flying up to her chest. She looked Ragatha up and down, her pinwheel eyes shrinking as she took in the tangled hair, the crooked dress, and the distinct scent of booze and artificial cherry wafting off the doll. Ragatha’s single eye was glazed, focusing somewhere about two inches behind Pomni’s head.
“Ragatha... are you... are you okay?” Pomni whispered, her worry momentarily overriding her social anxiety. She reached out a hesitant, gloved hand, touching Ragatha’s arm. The fabric felt warm, but the doll was swaying like a leaf in a gale.
“N-No... I’m ‘mmunicating!” Ragatha insisted, her words slurring into a soft, felt-muffled mush. She reached out and patted Pomni’s cheek with a clumsy, heavy hand, her fingers lingering a second too long. “You’re so... small. And colorful. Why do you always run away, Pomni? I’m right here. I'm... hic... I’m always right here.”
A deep, hot flush crept up Pomni’s neck, turning her pale face a vivid shade of pink. The contact sent a jolt through her. Ragatha was usually so careful about personal space, so protective and sturdy. Seeing her like this, vulnerable and soft, made Pomni’s heart do a strange, fluttery somersault in her chest. She hated the Circus, she hated the noise, but the way Ragatha was looking at her right now... it made the world feel a little less empty.
“Okay, okay,” Pomni said, her voice shaking slightly as she stepped out into the hall. She moved into Ragatha’s space, wrapping one arm around the doll’s waist to steady her. “You’re... you’re really not okay, Ragatha. We need to get you back to bed before you stumble over”.
“Oh! We’re goin’ for a walk?” Ragatha beamed, leaning her full weight into Pomni. She draped a heavy arm over the jester’s shoulders, tucking her head into the crook of Pomni’s neck. “I like walkin’ with you. You smell like... like new plastic. It’s nice.”
Pomni let out a flustered, high-pitched squeak, her face now matching the red of Ragatha’s hair. She began to lead the doll back down the hall, her small frame straining under the weight of the cotton-filled ragdoll. It was a slow, clumsy process; Ragatha’s feet occasionally got tangled in Pomni’s legs, leading to a series of stumbles that forced them to cling to each other even tighter.
Despite the panic of the situation, Pomni found herself leaning into the contact. She liked the weight of Ragatha against her; it felt grounding in a world that felt like it was made of shadows. She kept her eyes fixed on the floor, trying to hide her beaming, embarrassed smile, even as she whispered frantic instructions for Ragatha to please watch her step.
“You’re doin’ a great job, Pomni,” Ragatha mumbled into her ear, her warm breath tickling the jester’s bell. “Best... best jester in the whole wide... digital... thingy.”
“Just keep walking, Ragatha,” Pomni whispered, her heart pounding against her ribs. “We’re almost there. Just... just stay with me, okay?”
The trek back through the neon-lit hallway was an exercise in slow-motion chaos. Pomni, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs, acted as a living crutch for the much taller doll. Ragatha’s arm was draped heavily over Pomni’s shoulders, her felt fingers twitching occasionally near the jester’s bells. Every few steps, Ragatha’s knees would buckle, sending them both veering toward the candy-striped wallpaper, only for Pomni to grunt and heave them back toward the center of the hall.
“Steady, steady,” Pomni hissed, her face a permanent shade of crimson. She was hyper-aware of the proximity, of the way Ragatha’s soft, yarn hair tickled her cheek and the way the doll’s weight felt strangely right against her, despite the circumstances.
“You’re like... my knight,” Ragatha slurred, her voice vibrating right against Pomni’s ear. She let out a soft, hazy giggle that sounded like bubbles popping in syrup. “My knight in... in shiny... shiny jester armor. Savin’ me from the spinnin’ floor. Golly, you’re brave, Pomni.”
“I’m not b-brave.. we’re just walking, Ragatha,” Pomni stammered, her pinwheel eyes darting around the empty corridor. She could see how far gone the doll was; Ragatha’s single non-button eye was wandering, and a heavy, floppy inertia had replaced her usual grace. Pomni just wanted to get her behind a closed door before Caine appeared to ask why one of his “beloved humans” was currently completely sloshed.
They finally reached the door with the ragdoll’s face on it. Pomni managed to turn the knob while keeping a firm grip on Ragatha’s waist. As the door creaked open, Ragatha leaned back against the frame, looking down at Pomni with a lopsided, tender expression.
“Won’t you... hic... won’t you come in? It’s rude to leave a lady at the door, Miss Knight,” Ragatha joked, her speech thick and gooey.
Pomni hesitated. She should go back to her room. She should hide under her covers and pretend her heart wasn’t trying to escape her chest. But looking at Ragatha, who was currently trying to “stand” by leaning her forehead against the door’s edge, she knew she couldn’t leave. The doll would probably fall and clip halfway through the floor if left unattended. “Okay,” Pomni whispered. “Just... until you’re in bed.”
They stumbled into the room, which was filled with the soft, comforting clutter of Ragatha’s life. As Pomni guided her toward the bed, Ragatha let out a long, wistful sigh. “I’ve been dreamin’ ’bout you, y’know,” she murmured, her head lolling onto Pomni’s shoulder. “Lots of dreams. You’re always... runnin’. But in the dreams... I catch you.”
Pomni froze, her breath hitching. She couldn’t tell if Ragatha was serious or if whatever she’d taken was scrambling her brain, making her say something nonsensical. Dreaming of me? The thought made Pomni’s vision swim for a second, but she pushed through, finally maneuvering Ragatha to the edge of the mattress.
With a soft whump, Ragatha sat down, and Pomni quickly moved to lift her legs and tuck her under the heavy, patchwork quilt. The doll felt remarkably soft, her usual rigidity gone, replaced by a pliant, sleepy warmth. Once she was settled, Pomni took a step back, wiping her sweaty palms on her outfit.
“Okay,” Pomni said, her voice trembling slightly. “You’re tucked in. I’m... I’m gonna head back to my room now. Goodnight Ragatha.”
She turned to leave, but a felt hand suddenly darted out from beneath the quilt, snagging Pomni’s wrist with surprising accuracy. Pomni stopped, her heart skipping a beat. She turned back to find Ragatha looking up at her, the playful drunkness suddenly giving way to a raw, shimmering vulnerability. The spinning in Ragatha’s head seemed to have slowed just enough for a single, heavy thought to surface.
“Pomni?” Ragatha’s voice was a soft, frayed whisper, the slur still present but the intent agonizingly clear. “Do… Do you like me..?”
The question hung in the air, heavier than the Circus itself. Pomni stared down at her, the primary blues and reds of her own costume feeling far too bright, almost garish, in the dim, lavender-scented shadows of the room. She didn’t pull her wrist away; the contact felt like an anchor in a world made of drifting minds. Instead, she slowly sat down on the edge of the mattress, the bedsprings let out a soft, digital creak as she settled beside the tangled, beautiful mess of a woman before her.
“Ragatha,” Pomni breathed, her voice barely audible over the low hum of the room’s ambient static. “I really..” She stopped, picking her next words with a delicate care she rarely afforded herself. “I feel like I haven’t shown you… how much I really do appreciate you.”
Ragatha looked at her, the manic energy of the alcohol finally beginning to subside into a heavy, wide-eyed stillness. She wasn’t fumbling or stumbling anymore; she was listening, her single non-button eye fixed on Pomni as if she were the only solid object left in the universe. Gently, Pomni placed one of her gloved hands over the ragdoll’s soft, oversized mitten.
“I want to.. talk with you.. I want to show you that you’re important to me… but I just can’t do that right now..” The jester smiled softly, a rare, genuine expression that reached her pinwheel eyes. Their gaze interlocked, and Ragatha felt her cheeks swell with a heat that wasn’t just the lingering burn of the Manhattan. A deep, digital flush spread through her felt skin, mirroring the warmth of Pomni’s touch.
“You’re.. drunk..” Pomni said, her voice grounded and steadying. She placed her second hand atop Ragatha’s, sandwiching the doll’s mitten in a protective, comforting hold. “And as much as I want to talk, I think… it’s best if you get some rest..”
Pomni watched as Ragatha’s expression softened, the doll’s heavy lids finally beginning to win the battle against her wandering focus. To Pomni, it felt like the most important conversation of her digital life, but she couldn’t shake the fear that the alcohol was the one doing the talking. She wanted this, whatever this was, to be real, to be sober, and to be remembered when the artificial sun rose again.
“I’ll come back in the morning,” Pomni whispered, leaning in just enough for the scent of yarn and lavender to fill her senses. “I promise. We’ll talk then, okay? Just you and me.”
Ragatha let out a soft, contented hum, her head sinking deeper into the pillow as her grip on Pomni’s wrist finally went slack. The tension left her frame, her limbs settling into the mattress with a quiet, cottony heaviness.
Pomni stood up slowly, her own heart performing a frantic acrobatics routine in her chest. She took one last look at the sleeping doll, whose breathing had evened out into a rhythmic, peaceful cycle. With a lingering glance, Pomni turned and stepped toward the door, her movements careful and quiet.
As she stepped out into the hallway and pulled the door shut with a gentle click, the only sound left was the soft, rhythmic jingle-jingle of her jester bells. The tiny, metallic chimes faded down the corridor, growing fainter and more distant as she walked away. Back in the room, tucked beneath her patchwork quilt, Ragatha finally drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep, the ghost of Pomni’s touch still lingering on her felt hands.