Falling Through the Cracks (1/2)

Some people called Cylvania City the city that never slept.

That wasn't entirely accurate There were noise ordinances during late evening hours, and occasionally curfews when some trouble or threat reared its head in the heart of the Republic. So there were times when the streets were mostly empty, save for the guards or enterprising members of the thieves' guild, of course.

But in another sense, it was fitting.

There were thirty thousand souls in Cylvania City, and over two thousand of them were greater golems or doll haunters, or legally recognized undead. And most of those creatures couldn't sleep.

Some still liked to do so from time to time, and there were businesses set up to help citizens experience slumber, for a small fee. Other businesses specialized in low-activity entertainment, such as all-night storytelling lounges, or more elaborate establishments where Sensates could paint the walls with illusions. The theater had enjoyed a resurgence, too, booming in a way that it never had back in the war years.

This was where Cecilia Gearhart found herself sitting, one cool night in early spring. Sitting and staring at the actors stepping through a retelling of a rabbit beastkin revolt that broke an unjust tyrant's power in the eastern land of Belltollia. It was called “Less Misery Buns,” and overall she thought it was a good story. The fake ears were barely discernible from the real thing, and the songs were catchy. A year or two ago it would have been a nice night at the theater.

Now...

Now it was distant, like everything else. She could see it, could appreciate it, but it didn't go further than that.

It didn't make her feel any different, not really.

“I think I like that Bun Valbun character the most,” Threadbare said, from next to her. “He was jumping very high. And the carrotcake he stole was for his starving daughter, so it was for a good cause.”

“Was that the part with the wicked priest who wanted to seduce the flopsy girl?” Celia asked.

Threadbare stared at her for a second too long. “No, no that was in their last play. You remember, the Hutch Back of the No-ear Dame.”

“Sorry. I'm distracted,” she admitted. “The business with the Rumpus Room was entirely unexpected. I'm still turning it over in my mind.”

That was partly true, and Mrs. Beemer's unexpected treachery would cause her no end of trouble in the Council. But it wasn't the full story, and she could tell by Threadbare's body language that he wasn't buying her excuse.

“It is a lot to take in,” Threadbare patted her hand. She squeezed his paw for a second.

But only for a second. A year or two ago she would have taken comfort in that. Taken comfort in the contact, enjoyed the sensation and the love that the gesture symbolized.

Now she felt nothing. And the fear stirred in her, the emptiness and hollowness, the reminder that this wasn't her body, wasn't her hand, it was false and—

She broke that train of thought, and settled for just pulling her hand back. Shoving the contact from her mind, Celia stared back at the stage, looking for an escape. But even that was denied her. Her eyes caught the polished brass of the balcony railing, and for a second she gazed upon her own reflection.

Celia was a small figure, two feet at most. A porcelain doll dressed in fine velvet clothing, her face lined with multiple tiny joins that let her be expressive as any visage of flesh. Her fingers were likewise worked with care, allowing her full dexterity and ease of manipulation. Her hair was as frizzy and red as it had been in life, though now it was made from a boiled weed that could blister fingers if prepared poorly. And her eyes were glass, though with a life to them that no other doll could match. She winked at herself, testing the tiny, thin, eyelid, then winked the other eye, then closed both eyes and fought the urge to smash her head on the railing until it burst open.

She'd been having a lot more of those urges lately.

And she could feel Threadbare's button eyes on her again, could hear him shifting worriedly from one foot to the other. Could hear his suit jacket creak as he stretched out a hand, and tensed herself for contact again.

But he didn't touch her. Which was a relief? Or maybe it wasn't. “I don't know,” Celia whispered. “Let's just watch the rest of the musical. We can talk afterward.”

“All right,” Threadbare said. “That's a good idea.”

So they did. And it was a very good musical, that left the audience very happy. There was quite a long standing ovation at the end, and the actors and actresses almost hurt themselves bowing.

Well, most of them. The troop of players that had come west to give this show was split about half-and-half between actual beastkin and humans and elves playing the part of fuzzy foreigners. The real rabbit beastkin had good enough agility that they could bow like bobbleheads without straining their backs.

The spring air outside the theater was cool and crisp, and she didn't feel any of that. The only way she could tell was by the living members of the audience who were pulling their coats closer to themselves, and the way the leather bands in her body pulled a little tauter, tensing her muscle-equivalents a bit as the cold contracted them. Dodging feet, the two little golems made their way through the crowd, trying to stay unnoticed.

It didn't go as well as they hoped.

Most of the nobles and wealthier merchants that made up the crowd were wrapped up in their own business at first, talking with friends, networking, or making sure that their clothing and accessories were well-displayed to their peers. But the servants who attended them were busy watching the surroundings so that their masters didn't have to. And one poor guy who had been stuck holding the reins of carriage horses for a few hours stared at them as they passed by, then bowed, holding his hat to his chest.

Another servant caught the motion, and gasped. Her mistress glared at her, then followed her gaze, and clapped her hands. “Oh my! Look who's here with us tonight!”

And of course, the entire crowd did turn and look.

“Oh fump,” Celia whispered, and then it began.

The stares, the slack-jawed smiles, the way the crowd pushed in a bit... not threatening, but wanting to get closer to her. The happy greetings, from the ones that knew her, the mutterings and surprised comments from the ones that didn't.

Raw. Focused. Attention. All on her.

And none of it deserved, because it was all due to her body.The body that wasn't hers, not really.

Your Gorgeous skill is now level 67!

“Beautiful,” she heard a man whisper back in the crowd.

“Exquisite!” Came an elderly matron's voice.

“Why, you just want to hold her and rock her to sleep!” a young debutante gasped.

It used to be that she didn't mind the attention. That it was just another factor of her new existence to balance and manage. But combined with everything else, with the weight of everything else pressing down on her...

She thought back to the brass railing. And again she thought about slamming her head into it, and porcelain cracking and breaking.

“Get me out of here. Please?” she grabbed Threadbare's shoulder, and steadied herself.

“Of course.” the teddy bear cleared his throat and stepped in front of her. “Please let us through.”

But his voice was lost in the babble. And even more drowned out, when a few of them finally tore their eyes away from Celia to notice that he existed.

Then the hubbub started in earnest, as the crowd pressed in closer, waving, trying to talk to them, or in a couple of cases with the extravagantly rich, calling over their speed-painters to try and get a quick self-portrait with them in the background.

They meant well, Celia knew.

Crunch, went her skull, in the chambers of her mind.

Then Threadbare straightened up, glancing away from the blathering noble who was closest to them. “Showtime?” he asked.

“Showtime!” bellowed a voice from behind them, and the actors spilled out into the street, some juggling, some dancing, and a few even walking on stilts.

Cecilia might have a ludicrously high Gorgeous skill, and Threadbare might have near-maximum Adorable skill, but the actors did this for a living. And by their powers combined, it was indeed showtime!

“Now's our chance!” Celia whispered, grabbing Threadbare and hurrying around the corner.

They'd almost made it out of the alley, when a door opened and a rabbit beastkin blinked at them, red eyes gleaming against their white fur.

“Oh!” Threadbare said, skidding to a stop. “Sorry about this, but could we go through your theater? We've caused a fuss, and we didn't intend to.”

“Yes, that's what the manager told us,” the beastkin said, “You're welcome to come on through.”

“I know that voice,” Celia said, as the two toys hustled through the door and into the backstage of the theater. “You were Bun Valbun, right? The one who jumped very high?” she shot a glance at Threadbare, and he nodded back at her.

“Oh, yes, that was my role,” the beastkin said, and Celia squinted at them as they moved through the spotlights that were being shuttered and hauled away now that the performance was done. “I'm Jean Lafeet, by the way. Valbun was a fun role, but not my only one.”