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Chapter Text

The first rays of bright morning light crested the horizon painting stone, metal and one silver head of hair in palest gold. A relief, for any still alive to see it after all the darkness and death that had preceded it.

The wind whistled harshly across the open top of the alchemist's tower, tugging at Pinocchio's tattered coat and whipping strands of hair into his eyes. His limbs trembled and legion arm twitched fitfully, the lingering charge from Simon's glowing bolts still disrupting his movement.

Pinocchio wasn't worried about that however, as the warped body of Simon Manus was finally slumped and still, truly dead at last. The only sounds were the moaning wind, the faint groan of the metal scaffolding high above and his own harsh panting.

If there was one thing Pinocchio disliked about all the strange changes he'd gone through since waking, it would be the exhaustion. Not the way pain now lingered in his limbs hours after an injury, as unpleasant as it was nor those first discomfiting pangs of hunger. It was the dragging weight of weariness that made everything feel like lead and his vision swim before his eyes. He hated how it made him feel, how it had been slowly building ever since the opera house.

Joints aching he sheathed his sword and unhooked the monad lamp, bringing it up to inspect it. Pinocchio had been sent crashing to the ground several times in that fight and knew he'd landed on the lamp at least once. Sure enough, a jagged crack split the surface, fractured glass and badly dented metal making him wince in sympathy.

"Gemini?"

A weak chirrup had him squinting into the unlit interior, spotting the mechanical cricket huddled in the bottom of the lamp. Gemini himself didn't look too damaged but he'd get Venigni to check once back at the hotel, just to be safe.

Pulling off the now tattered blood, oil and who knew what else stained cravat Pinocchio tied it around the lamp, covering the crack so Gemini wouldn't fall out.

Clipping the lamp back into place, Pinocchio put a hand in his belt pouch, hoping to find a pulse cell he'd somehow missed. Sadly, all the small crystal vials were empty, their liquid ergo contents already drunk just to keep him on his feet. The puppet knew he'd need fresh ergo if he hoped to get back to the hotel, and the only possible source was…

The alchemist's ergo bloated corpse was now visibly dissolving, a veritable thundercloud of light rising upwards like a swarm of butterflies. The only things not crumbling away were a strange pale arm… and a small but pristine ball of bright ergo.

Stiffly stepping forward he bent to pick up the still warm crystal. Holding it in his right hand he rolled it between his fingers, the size and shape similar to a large grape. Pinocchio really didn't want to, but with Gemini unable to help he'd get nowhere trying to absorb the dispersing cloud of airborne ergo.

Grimacing, he muttered a curse he'd heard Alidoro (the fake Alidoro) say and glared at the innocuous blue-white crystal, far too bright and concentrated for such a small piece. Before he could think anymore on it he tossed it into his mouth and threw his head back, swallowing quickly.

Giving a full body shudder once he was sure he wasn't going to choke, Pinocchio turned to regard the arm. Picking it up gingerly with the flamberge legion arm he tilted it this way and that, more than a little puzzled by what he was seeing. It looked like it was a dead human arm at first glance, right down to the texture of the skin and yet…

It was hard to the touch, stiff and solid with no give or flex in the wrist and fingers, almost like carved stone. The other end of the arm was a ragged mess of torn blue-black 'flesh', tiny specks of crystal ergo sprinkled through it.

Pinocchio had never seen anything quite like it before and yet… something niggled in the back of his mind. Could this be the relic he'd seen mention of in those notes? That… Arm of God?

Before he could think more on it a hair raising sound thrummed through the air and vibrated the stone below his feet. Snapping his head up Pinocchio stared in alarm at the metal device on the peak of the tower. It was alive with power, crackling cables feeding up to the rotating spike at the tip where…

"Oh no…"

Pinocchio only had the briefest moment to take in two specific things about his situation.

One, the massive cloud of airborne ergo Simon's death released had been recollected by the machine, ergo originally collected by the deaths of potentially thousands of people.

Two, that all that ergo was poised to fire straight down… at him.

Pinocchio had just enough time to tear Gemini from his belt as the spire discharged.

------------------

The monad lamp clattered to a stop just outside the ergos radius, a single piercing shriek of pain cutting off with a static whine.

Within the miniature blue sun of ergo something cracked, then popped. Steaming metal P-organ fragments dashed on the stone, throwing up sparks where they hit.

The sun continued to rise and a blind cricket chirruped in futility.

Chapter Text

To Pinocchio it was like being bathed in white hot fire, struck by lightning and drowned in acid all at once. Every part of him was swarmed by ergo, burning his eyes and skin, pouring into his nose and down his throat. His reflexive scream was swallowed up, choked off as his voicebox overloaded and broke.

It was an unrelenting torrent of pain, his body a container already pushed past its breaking point. His limbs were somehow locked in place, despite twitching and shuddering like he was being electrocuted. He couldn't see but was still aware of his left hand's crushing grip on the Arm, fingers spasming against the now hot relic.

The only things he could hear were the soft susurrus of phantom wings and the faint grinding of gears from his left arm. There was pressure building in his chest, noticeable even over the screaming pain flooding everything. His P-organ was clicking erratically, louder than it had in a long time while the newer, pounding beat seemed to be faltering.

Pinocchio couldn't think through the sheer agony, which was now coming in waves. Each one was like a physical pulse, straining at his seams harder every time.

Something had to give.

His awareness of the outside world dwindled. He could no longer see or hear, nor feel his limbs. Sensation narrowed to a pulsing drumbeat of pain in his chest, he was all but unconscious when the relic started to writhe . The Arm's hand spasmed, opening and closing in a crooked claw. Its stony skin softened, grew pliant and the flesh underneath wriggled like a bag of eels in his erratically twitching hand. The severed stump began to drip blue blood as an uncountable number of hairlike filaments squirmed out from the softened limb. The colour of liquid starlight, the writhing mass converged on Pinocchio, threaded up through his legion arm before they plunged into his shoulder, needle fine tips sinking deep. Searching. Intent.

A final pulse of pain swept through him and in his chest, something finally gave.

Dashed to the ground amid a spurt of liquid ergo, the broken P organ skidded to a stop, casing smashed open to expose delicate destroyed internals. Seconds later more metal fragments hit the ground, steel finger joints and shattered grinder pieces, smouldering wires and gears.

The seething mass of ergo continued to churn even as it oh so slowly began to shrink, absorbed from within.

~~~

Everything was white, blindingly bright. He stumbled through it, burning up from the inside as the light screamed inside him, a thousand thousand voices wailing all at once as they poured out their suffering. He couldn’t get away, he was drowning in it…!

A hand, strong and steady grasped his :arm/heart/soul:, pulling him :down/within/inside: to a place the light couldn’t reach. Soft darkness smothered everything, even the voices reduced to barely heard whispers. It was only warm here, the hand had vanished but he didn’t miss it as he sank into the abyss.

He stared out into the dark, thoughts slow and syrupy as he drifted. The Darkness stared back and smiled, winding tighter with a rasping, skittering susurrus of movement, uncountable things shifting beyond sight.

“ꖾꗍꝆꝆꗞ ꝆꕯꖡꖡꝆꗍ ꗞꖦꗍ...”

~~~

Awareness grew slowly for Pinocchio, floating in a sea of undulating warmth, a deep slow drumbeat thudding through the darkness. Slowly, achingly slowly the warm cradling waters receded, leaving a leaden weight that dragged his body down to the unforgiving ground.

Touch was first sense to really wake, bright zipping sparks and tingles lighting up nerves like livewires. Messages sent in fractions of a second telling him temperature, pressure, texture and more; all in greater detail than he was used to.

Discomfort set in, the cold stone (though muted like he was resting on a blanket) beneath his left hip, leg and shoulder triggering a shiver. He curled up tighter in response, a sensation not unlike that of a wet sheet dragging at his skin. Unpleasant.

Opening his mouth he licked his lips, a sticky sweetness settling heavy on his tongue. It reminded him of something… but the foggy recollection drifted away like smoke before he could grasp it.

With effort, he lifted his free arm and clawed weakly at the sheet, fingertips dragging at the too slick underside. He couldn't get any purchase to grip or pull it off but that didn't seem to matter in the end. The sheet eventually split around his scratching fingers, the chilled air making him immediately pull his hand back with a shudder.

He tried to open his eyes, only to find them glued shut. Gentle exploration revealed a sticky film covering them, something he couldn't pull at without pain.

Already tired, he just let his hand fall from his face, content to lay there for several minutes more. The cold air filtered through the tear and he just breathed, getting used to the bite of fresh air. Each breath felt… strange, chest expanding and contracting, filling and pulling in ways he wasn't used to.

Rolling onto his back sent needles stabbing up and down his left arm, a sensation that was highly out of place in a steel clad puppet arm. Pinocchio didn't pay it any mind however, still feeling too detached and overall odd to process properly. Laboriously pushing himself into a sitting position, his hands sought out the cut, tearing it wide open.

Abruptly he was aware of just how wet he was, wind cutting right through his tattered soggy clothes to nip at overly sensitive skin. His hair was a tangled mess, clinging to his neck like pond weed. Dribbles of what smelled almost like liquid ergo (save for the coppery undertone) were running down his back. Pulling the hair away from his skin he took a moment to squeeze it out, not noticing it was longer than before.

Still in somewhat of a daze he tried to get his legs under him to stand, but promptly wobbled and fell. That startled him enough to push back some of the fog clouding his thoughts. His limbs, his joints felt… strangely loose, fluid instead of the stable, reliable puppet frame he was used to.

The wind blew especially hard across the tower, the faint sound of rocking glass and metal reaching his ears. Suddenly Pinocchio remembered what he'd thrown away in panic,a hand flying to his belt to double check.

"Gemini?"

His voice came out as a low rasp, throat dry and aching yet it still seemed too loud on the deserted towertop.

Listening intently he heard no answering chirrup, but the wind must have rocked the lamp again for he faintly heard it shift.

Foregoing another attempt to stand he carefully crawled over the rumpled wet 'sheet' until he felt stone, listening for a moment to reorient himself. Moving slowly forward, his fingers played over the pavings and tiny scrap metal pieces until they brushed cloth.

Hand closing on the lamp he lifted it and felt for the break, makeshift cover already askew. Without sight he needed to feel to check if the cricket was still within. Fingertips explored the inside of the lamp, tracing over the tiny stargazer shaped pedestal Gemini normally perched on. The back of the lamp similarly held nothing until he finally brushed jointed legs, wedged into the tapered top of the lamp. They almost seemed to flinch under his touch, huddling further into the small cavity.

"Gemini it's alright, it's just me."

No response other than a twitching little kick. Pinocchio reasoned the poor cricket must be too damaged to recognise what was going on. Withdrawing his fingers he readjusted the cloth cover, lamp held with the tear facing upwards.

Pushing himself to his feet again Pinocchio wobbled, staggered a few steps… but managed to stay standing, albeit in a silly looking splay-legged stance.

Okay, so far so good. Now, he just needed to find the stairs which shouldn't prove too difficult, the paved courtyard was mostly surrounded by walls. Still, there were a few spots where he could walk off the edge if he wasn't careful…

~~~

Inside the lamp Gemini huddled around the tiny, damaged ergo crystal he held. It had bounced straight through the cracked casing moments after that… gear grinding shriek, rattling the inside of the lamp and nearly striking Gemini himself.

After too many hours of silence and the sun giving way to night not once but twice, the cricket had given up hope of anyone helping. Gepetto had even shown up on the first day, but the things he'd said, the sheer anger in his voice at whatever sight greeted him had more than convinced Gemini that Pinocchio was right not to trust the man.

Later, after the day had come and gone again the cricket had heard more signs of life. He had heard the voice call his name, could have answered it but…

Gemini couldn't exactly see much through the lamp's thick glass at the best of times, so he relied on ergo signatures and voices to identify those around him. While the voice that spoke to him could have possibly been Pinocchio's… how could he believe it when the very core, the base signature he'd first felt when coming online was humming within the crystal between the cricket's feet?

Chapter Text

The stargazer was smashed to pieces. Pinocchio had kicked some of the strut sections when he made it down the stairs, the loud rattling clangs making him jump and almost fall. Who destroyed it or why, he didn't know but without it he couldn't contact the hotel.

Now the former puppet was sitting at the small table on the grand balcony, trying to focus his still frustratingly hazy mind. 

First, he had to think of a way down the tower without needing his sight. That was proving… difficult, as he remembered multiple places a careful balancing act and sharp eyes were needed.

With his right hand cradling the lamp in his lap, the left was idly examining the items on the table. He traced his fingers over the closest candlestick, following the curve of the vase up to touch the cool silky petals of the flowers then down onto the wood handle of the cane.

Hmm. Sturdy enough to be a support for the average human, it would only break were he to lean on it but…

He felt down to the brass cap on the end, then back up to the metal banded glass globe on top. Perhaps it would do for something else. Standing he gripped the cane below the globe, tip resting lightly on the ground. Swinging it back and forth in front of him, he listened as it scraped and tapped the stone; sound changing when it hit the carpet strip and then the table leg.

Slowly walking the length of the balcony with the cane told him where the plants, candelabras and other items were before he risked running into them. It was no substitution for sight but it might make things a little easier, at least for a while.

Turning right upon leaving the balcony, Pinocchio located the opening leading to exterior stone stairs. Given they had no railing and a guaranteed death if he misstepped, he very carefully hugged the wall going down.

Ducking through the doorway at the bottom was a relief, if only a small one. This was that room with the mural and the pews, like a tiny version of the cathedral. About to pick his way past the benches, the sound of grinding stone made him tense up, suddenly acutely aware he only had the cane and a dagger to defend himself. The two dragons sword was still somewhere in the towertop 'arena'. Stupid scrambled thought processes, it hadn't been sheathed on his belt when he woke and he hadn't even remembered to look for it!

Dropping the cane with a clatter Pinocchio swapped the lamp to his left hand and drew the dagger with clumsy fingers, ears straining to hear any indication of an attack. A single sharp inhale and the tapping of smart heeled shoes on stone had him doing a wobbly pivot to fully face the sound.

"M-Mr Stalker! I'm so glad I found you!"

The familiar and entirely unexpected voice had Pinocchio stammering his own reply, confusion colouring his raspy voice.

"G-Giangio? How did you… how are you here?"

Timid, shuffling footsteps neared before abruptly stopping just beyond his reach.

"O-oh dear… Mr Stalker, you look a mess…! Ah n-not that I… that is… Do you need help?"

A short, awkward pause later and the pharmacist remembered he'd actually been asked a question.

"Oh y-yes… I… might have l-lied earlier, when I said I was just a pharmacist. I t-trained to be an alchemist you see, b-but when I saw the things they were doing… I ran away…"

Shoes scuffed the floor as Giangio shifted uncomfortably before continuing.

"While I was here, I found a few hidden passages b-bypassing quite a lot of the tower's confusing corridors. When you di-didn't come back and everyone got worried… I-I thought I could try my hand searching. Th-there are smaller submersibles than the Pistris models. I-If I'd known you needed to get here I c-could have shown you."

Giangio fidgeted awkwardly again, shifting from one foot to the other.

"P-please come with me, I can get us to the hidden marina through these tunnels. H-here, take my hand and I'll lead you… unless you still need to do something here?"

Pinocchio took a long moment to consider Giangio's words before sheathing his dagger, relaxing somewhat.

"My sword is still on the top of the tower, I couldn't…"

He was cut short by a cough, fiery pain flaring in his throat.

"Ah! H-here, I have some water…"

There was the sound of sloshing liquid, a cap being unscrewed and the metal rim of a large flask pressed gently but firmly to his mouth. The smell immediately told him that it wasn't water and he tried to jerk away… but there was an unyielding hand on the back of his neck; wetness on his lips…

"Mmph!"

He was ready to lash out, shock and the beginnings of panic stirring in his breast. Before he could do more than stumble a single step backwards he got another whiff of the drink's scent.

Oh… that heady, heavenly aroma… All the tension and resistance drained out of him, focus shrinking only to the liquid.

Pinocchio grabbed the flask with his right hand, barely cognisant enough to keep the lamp clutched in his left and not drop it.

He didn't care that Giangio was right there, still gripping the back of his neck with surprising strength. The only thing that mattered was the ambrosia in his hand.

It felt like he couldn't drink it fast enough, taking long draughts of the strangely thick fluid. Eugenie might have described it a little like warm honey, soothing and spreading blissful heat with every drop. She'd have only been partially right. Pinocchio, even if he had many more years of experience would have been unable to articulate the dept of flavour or visceral satisfaction gained from this ambrosial drink.

"That's it, drink your fill. You need it after all."

Pure relaxation unspooled through his limbs and he slowly sank to the floor, hand slipping on the seemingly endless flask. The alchemist's hold shifted, an arm around his waist supporting him while the container was neatly plucked from Pinocchio's lax grip.

"There now brother, just relax."

Dimly, he felt a hand brushing the damp, sticky hair back from his face.

"I wonder... perhaps time will tell us what your Wish turned out to be?"

Head lolling with the unavoidable pull of sleep, the newborn slumped into waiting arms.

~~~

Paracelsus lifted the boy with little visible difficulty, carrying him through the hidden doorway in the far wall of the chapel. The room beyond was mostly cluttered with old furniture like spare pews, boxes and cobwebbed figurines. In one corner there was a folded pile of old wall hangings, tapestries etc that would do for an impromptu rest spot.

Lying the boy atop the fabric, the alchemist removed his coat to drape over him. The child was still damp from his Awakening after all, the unmistakable odour of sweetness, metallic blood and newness wafting from his skin. Paracelsus perhaps hadn't needed to give him the Ambrosia but it would still do him good in the long run. Plus he'd be much easier to handle asleep than awake.

Confident in the knowledge Pinocchio would sleep for hours yet, the alchemist went back to the chapel; closing the hidden door as precaution. Most of Simon's underlings were either dead or mindless carcasses by now but better safe than sorry. Gepetto and his bloodthirsty creation still needed to be dealt with though, preferably sooner rather than later.

If the boy hadn't just gone through a full Awakening Paracelsus would have left the old man for him to deal with, content to just watch from afar. Not now though, not when fate had led him to a Starblessed newborn ; still blind and legs wobbly as a minutes old fawn. An unanticipated but very pleasant surprise, especially with how the Krat experiment had deviated from the expected progression years ago.

Following the damp footprints around and up to the pinnacle, the sight that met his eyes was something he'd only witnessed once before. The long trailing weave of spun ergo, clinging like a web to the arching frame of Simon’s machine gleamed under the diamond strewn blanket of the night sky. Pooled on the ground below it like a moon gold blanket was the torn chorion, streaks of bright fluid still glistening on its folded layers.

Letting the bubble of delight rise and play across his lips Paracelsus drank in the sight, knowing it would be gone in mere hours. Already the strands were fraying, shedding dusty flakes of faded blue that were snatched away by the wind. Yes, this was a much better result than expected.

Spotting a long thin shape caught up in one of the strands, the alchemist picked his way over and pulled it free with a jerk. The must be the boy’s sword, albeit the weapon was so crusted with ergo he couldn’t be sure. Glancing around didn’t reveal anything else of note so the alchemist turned to head back to the hidden room, still smiling. Lilac eyes caught the moonlight and reflected like a cat’s, pale gold mirrors in the dark.

~~~

The sun was only just cresting the horizon, painting Hotel Krat in pinkish gold rays of light. It was early enough that Eugenie had only just stumbled downstairs, Venigni and Pulcinella still absent; likely asleep. Polendina wasn’t even at the front desk, still holding his vigil in the inner garden.

To say the last few days had been… difficult was understating things. The attack had shaken everyone up, Belle still recovering from her exacerbated injury due to... what had happened with one of the Black Rabbits. Pinocchio had yet to return from chasing Mas… Geppetto's kidnappers and then Antonia had…

Everyone was hurt in one way or another. Eugenie… aside from what else had happened, she still couldn’t make sense of the sheer magnitude of Geppetto’s actions. It just didn’t make sense to her, why make the frenzy happen? He was well off, highly respected and the master craftsman of the Workshop Union. What had made him snap like that and how had he carried on the ruse of innocence right to their faces?!

It was horrible to know he’d tricked them like that, lied with smiling eyes and kind words. Mr Venigni was trying but it had clearly affected him badly, being much more subdued than normal. As for Antonia’s… departure … it had all but broken Polendina. Eugenie wasn’t blind, she’d seen the signs of an awakened ego. For all she was a weaponsmith, she still knew more than a little about puppet workings and the signs were all there. The puppet had barely spoken since and wouldn’t leave her hurried gravesite in the inner garden.

The clanking of the lift to the Relic of Trismegistus activating rang loudly in the quiet hotel lobby. Eugenie froze halfway to her workstation, a chill of fear running down her spine. Bolting the rest of the way, she grabbed a wrench with a trembling hand and turned to run back towards the library with the hidden lift. Crouching as best she could behind the piano, Eugenie waited to see who would appear, a combination of panic and nausea churning in her gut.

The lift ground to a halt and the dark shape pooled on the platform didn’t move. Slowly creeping closer, Eugenie reached out and pulled the heavy canvas back.

The familiar figure was lying curled on his left side, oblivious to her presence. Pinocchio’s face was relaxed in sleep, his hair now a shocking waterfall of spun silver. His eyes were shut with what looked like a clear layer of glue or gel coating them, dried and flaking at the edges. After a single moment of disbelief she reached out to touch him, suddenly afraid he was broken with how still he was.

“Pinocchio?”

She had her answer the moment she cupped his face in her hands. He was radiating too much warmth for a puppet, almost feverish to the touch if he’d been human. She felt minute twitches under her thumb, almost like moving muscle despite puppets having no such mechanism in their faces. His breath puffed hot across her wrists as she stared at him, a feeling she couldn’t quite name making the back of her neck prickle with unease.

Taking one hand away Eugenie pulled back more of the canvas, exposing the ripped, stained ruin his clothes had been reduced to. She also saw the oval silvery mass she could only describe as… scar tissue dominating the centre of his chest. Slowly, almost of its own accord her hand reached out and pressed flat against the raised skin.

“Ba-dum ba-dum ba-dum ba-dum…”

That nameless feeling multiplied exponentially, fine hairs standing on end even down her arms as her own heart perfectly echoed the beat she felt under her palm.

Puppet hearts don’t beat like that. They tick and shunk, the internal hydraulics pushing oil and liquid ergo through sealed piping.

Eugenie felt like she was moments from recoiling, mind racing to the alchemist’s unnatural experiments Pinocchio had told them about. She’d never seen one of the so-called ‘carcasses’ but they had all heard them; unholy shrieks and howls in the night. She’d seen the rancid green blood Pinocchio had come back stained with as well, had to clean it out of the seams and joints of his legion arm too.

Yet he didn’t look monstrously altered, he was no twisted abomination of alchemy. He just, impossibly, had a human heartbeat, body temperature and the almost invisibly fine hairs of living skin dusting his face.

This… if it wasn’t for that incessant voice of instinct, jangling her nerves with a wordless sense of unnatural/off/does-not-belong… she’d have said it was miraculous.

Chapter Text

This… if it wasn’t for that incessant voice of instinct, jangling her nerves with a wordless sense of unnatural/off/does-not-belong… she’d have said it was miraculous.

~~~

Eyes sliding down to where his legion arm should have been, she almost wasn’t surprised to see pale skin in place of embossed steel. It was partly tucked under him but she could still see the hand and forearm, looking as natural as any human limb.

Feeling a growing edge of hysteria to her thoughts, Eugenie tried once more to wake him, shaking his shoulder vigorously.

“Pinocchio, wake up! … Please…”

Whether it was her tone, the shaking or merely just time, he reacted. His brow furrowed, a sleepy hum escaped while his right arm curled up to his chest. Long legs shifted under the canvas, two objects dislodging from the folded cloth with a clatter.

One was a dirty lump of fabric hiding the actual object from sight. The second was unmistakably the Two Dragons sword, blade stuck in the sheath due to a heavy crust of what was presumably ergo. Her eyes skimmed both items before snapping back to Pinocchio’s face as he mumbled tiredly.

“... genie? … mmh … Eugenie? ”

The weaponsmith remembered she was still touching his shoulder and pulled back sharply, practically holding her breath. His nose scrunched up, distorting his freckles as his right hand rose to rub his face. Fingers danced lightly across his eyes before a disappointed sigh escaped him. Pinocchio sat up slowly, left arm bracing as he felt the floor with his right.

“ Mm… where? How did I…? ”

The words were said quietly, speaking to himself more than asking a question aloud. Eugenie couldn’t quite bring herself to answer, the words sticking in her throat as she watched him. Tilting his head he stilled for a long moment, listening to his surroundings.

She wasn’t actually trying to be quiet, couldn’t with the way her breath was hitching despite her best effort to stop it. It was no real surprise then, that he angled to ‘look’ in her direction.

“Eugenie? You’re… What’s wrong?”

Something about the way he said it, the honest concern in his voice made the blockage in her still tender throat worse, her eyes prickling in response. She knew what it meant and tried to force it back, like she had ever since the Workshop Tower collapse. She’d had to do that a lot these past three days.

Every other time these emotions crept up on her she’d been able to repress them, redirect herself to do something constructive instead. Weapon repair, maintaining the disarmed puppets in the courtyard, even cleaning her workspace and ornament collection. She willed herself to stand, grab the sword and retreat with an excuse about cleaning it or calling Venigni to help but…

Her knees remained glued to the floor. A hiccup escaped when she tried to speak, Pinocchio’s face blurring as tears gathered and overflowed. Eugenie couldn’t stop it and closed her eyes, an ugly sob erupting against her will.

Moments later a questing hand touched her arm, his other finding her shoulder. Pinocchio was speaking but the buzzing in her ears drowned it out. Hiding her face in her hands Eugenie knocked her glasses askew then tore them off, not caring that she dropped them. She curled in on herself, skin crawling and a sick feeling in her chest, ashamed at how weak she was being. She couldn’t do anything at the Workshop Tower; couldn’t face the man she suspected was an imposter and couldn’t even do anything when the hotel was attacked and that stalker had...

She’d stood there listening in when Pinocchio sent Mr Venigni the ergo wavelength message, saying he’d arrived at the alchemist’s island. She also heard when he confirmed Alidoro was an impostor, the real one dead at the hands of his partner. She’d known something was fishy since Pinocchio told her about the rejected glove, had honestly thought there was something a bit off about Alidoro’s behaviour before then… Yet she had done nothing about it. She felt even more worthless than she had when pinned by a heavy body and large hands buried in the rubble of the Workshop, hiccuping gasps shaking her small frame.

A rustle of fabric… and warm arms tentatively embraced her, pulling her close despite her flinch. Tucked up against his chest that impossible heartbeat sounded in her ear, a silver curtain draping across her blurry vision. He smelled of oil, dust and that faint sugary sweetness that was unique to Pinocchio. Nothing like the choking stink of leather and sweat that still clogged her nose when she went to sleep. Quiet, slighly stilted reassurances were murmured into her hair as his right hand oh so gently rubbed her back, the left secure around her waist.

The last time she’d received a hug, or any other form of comforting touch was… after the workshop tower. She’d been hugged (briefly) by Alidoro upon being pulled from the last of the rubble. In the weeks that followed, when the full force of the puppet frenzy hit Krat…

She’d been lucky, taken to the hotel by a few surviving stalkers in the opening hours of the chaos. It didn’t mean she hadn’t seen the bodies.

At first it was just confusion and panic, reports of Rosa Isabelle street becoming a slaughterhouse as the puppets seemingly went mad. People naturally rushed for Krat central station with hastily packed bags and suitcases, or shut themselves indoors if they believed the news at all. The head of her little Workshop survivor group however beelined straight for the hotel, an older stalker who knew about the anti puppet security system.

The confusion of the people they passed had swiftly changed to screams and terror with the first red eyed, blood splattered puppet lurching out of a side street.  Only a butler puppet, the stalkers in their little wounded group had taken it down with relative ease. The group of five policeman puppets following it however, had them running for their lives. Eugenie still remembered that panicstricken dash as blood flew and people died with every bone breaking hit of their batons.

In the days that followed the bodies piled high and the screams petered out. People safe in the hotel panicked and fled, sometimes dying within feet of the doors. The stalkers and even the lone technician of Eugenie’s little group all slowly left, trying to help or to flee. None of them returned.

Geppetto quietly appeared one day, a seemingly kind but distant and preoccupied presence. He had no time for Eugenie but was pleasant enough with his dismissals. He’d even mentioned he was waiting for someone, a person who could do something about the frenzy. At the time she smiled and nodded, not believing any single person could stop the puppets. Then a young man (a puppet she at first thought was human) just walked in some two weeks later, unhurt but drenched in puppet oil and wielding a custom prosthetic arm.

Everything changed after that. Puppets falling by the hundreds, even their King, the supposed source of the frenzy… Except then there were monsters, deranged alchemists…

Eugenie was just so tired of being afraid; of losing people she’d grown to care about. If she was being honest with herself, that shockingly human puppet had become a person in her eyes quite some time ago. She didn’t know when exactly Geppetto’s Puppet had become Pinocchio to her. Whether it was his earnest attempts to win over Spring the cat or his attentive, gentle behaviour around Antonia, as though he understood how frail she was.

He had all the curiosity of a young child, constantly reading and asking questions. He didn’t seem to like speaking at first, but his body language made up for it… which honestly was something she never would have thought possible for a puppet. A tilted head, furrowed brows, tucking one leg behind the other or the way he’d fiddle with his hands. A hundred different tiny physical cues that he saw, copied and integrated into his own behaviour. He didn’t always get it right which led to some very strange moments… but it made him even more an individual in her eyes.

He was kind, bringing back supplies for the hotel unprompted. Food, forging materials, books… He’d even managed to find three new ornaments for her collection, simply smiling when she asked him why. She’d never even seen him fight beyond testing a new weapon on the training puppets yet his presence was profoundly reassuring.

He made her feel like everything was going to be okay. That she was safe, a rare and precious feeling in these times. She felt it now, sobbing her heart out as he embraced her with overflowing warmth. Eugenie let her crumbling defences fall, the outpouring of grief pure catharsis. Everything she’d lost, every horror she’d seen flooded out; leaving her raw, scoured.

When the tears finally abated she just lay there, huddled into his chest with nary the strength to move. At some point he’d shifted off the lift to lean against the wall, curled round her like a living blanket. He’d given up speaking and just embraced her, a cradle of warmth against the cold cruel reality.

Finally gathering the will to move she slowly, carefully sat up. It was with evident reluctance that he let his arms drop, concern in every line of his slightly blurry face. Fishing a handkerchief out of her pocket she dried her face, inhaling shakily. She needed to find her glasses, hopefully they hadn’t skittered under furniture when she dropped them…

Pinocchio kept one hand under her left elbow, helping her stand when she wobbled unsteadily. He stood as well, bracing against the wall as though unsure if his own legs would stay steady. Already squinting at the floor in a vain hope to spot the blurred shape of her glasses, Pinocchio surprised her by proffering his left hand, their metal frame resting in his palm.

“Oh! Um thank you Pino…”

Eugenie trailed off into silence as she took the glasses, an almost static tingle prickling her fingers where she brushed his left hand. Shoving the frames back on her face she stammered another thank you, hating the awkward silence.

Looking up at him (was he always that tall?) she saw his eyes were still closed, the film over them looking a little drier at the edges. Aside from the drastic colour change his hair had definitely grown again, the loose silver strands easily reaching his shoulderblades. It might even be thicker, the hair having a slight wave to it.

His clothes were in ruins, the coat and waistcoat long gone, undershirt shredded and torn. His trousers were only a little better, socks a stained mess and boots completely gone. What on earth had happened on that island?

No, not now. Questions were for later, when she didn’t feel like a wrung out dishcloth or a broken vase trying to hold the pieces together. Ignoring the faint trembles of emotional exhaustion (and that ever present pain) still shaking her muscles, she grasped Pinocchio’s right hand and gave a tug, indicating she wanted him to move.

“Right, you’re in a terrible state and Mr Venigni isn’t up yet so just follow me. You can clean up and I’ll see what work the Two Dragons sword needs, it’s all crusted over. After you’re ready and Mr Venigni is up you can tell us what happened on the island… I mean, if that’s alright.”

Given that she couldn’t hope to move him on her own, Eugenie was glad he followed her lead easily enough. Her voice was a bit hoarse, hopefully he'd assume it was because of the crying... Passing the reception desk she was, albeit gently, jerked back as he abruptly stopped, half turning back.

“Wait, Gemini… Was the Monad lamp with me?”

A little taken aback by the quick stop it took Eugenie a moment to reply.

“Um, I think so? Stay here for a moment and I’ll check.”

Walkinging back through the small library Eugenie picked up the sword before looking closer at the other object on the floor. Yes, under the dirty fabric was a badly damaged Monad lamp, the side partially caved in and a gash running vertically up the lamp. Hissing quietly at the damage, she cradled it carefully as she walked back. She couldn’t see anything in the dark interior and could only hope the cricket puppet was still inside.

Pinocchio was waiting where she left him, fingers tapping anxiously on the desk.

“I’ve got the lamp but it’s quite badly damaged. I’m sorry but I can’t see if Gemini is still inside. I’ll leave it on my workstation and take a look as soon as I’ve seen you upstairs.”

Pinocchio just nodded, head tracking her footsteps as she hurried around the stargazer and into her little station on the far right of the lobby. She left the ergo crusted sword on the counter and carefully placed the lamp beside her miraculously surviving ornaments, damaged side up. She didn’t really know Gemini, the tiny puppet rarely spoke around her. Pinocchio cared about i… him though and had mentioned he was a little chatterbox outside the hotel. She hoped he was still in there.

Skirting the stargazer again she rejoined Pinocchio, grabbing his hand and tugging expectantly. As he carefully followed her lead upstairs Eugenie realised she had taken his left hand, that same pins and needles tingle spreading slightly from the point of contact. She really needed to know where that arm came from, not to mention everything else.

Careful breaths, ignore it for now.

First of all was Pinocchio’s dire need of a bath and clean clothes. Antonia had given him his own suite of rooms not far from Geppetto’s own, though they had only been used for storage and bathing, as puppets couldn’t sleep. Spending most of his time fighting he had a habit of getting horribly dirty with mud, blood, oil and who knew what else coating him when he’d trudge back through the hotel doors. So he’d had to learn how to wash up, thoroughly . Therefore he should be fine left to his own devices in his suite, even temporarily blind.

Cresting the final flight of stairs she led him around the pile of luggage still obstructing the landing. They had started cleaning up but only really focused on the lobby so far.

Locating the door to his suite Eugenie led him through and turned on the lights, sighing. This suite, unlike the lobby and Geppetto’s rooms had not been disturbed by the Black Rabbit Brotherhood thankfully. Lying on the sideboard and against the wall beside it was a miniature armoury, weapons of all shapes and sizes crowded together. Short dagger blades rested beside hefty greatswords and mechanical marvels like the Springsword.

On the coffee table near the unlit fireplace was a cluster of various items, ergo chips, legion arm canisters and empty crystal vials among others. A sealed glass jar of what looked like liquid ergo was just sitting there beside a small measuring jug, glowing eerily.

“Alright here we are… I don’t see anything on the floor you could trip on. I’m just going to double check and start running a bath for you.”

Dropping his hand she walked over to check the bedroom, the elaborate wrought iron bedstead naturally catching the eye. She noted one of his more well used outfits laid out on the un… used bed? Polendina was the only service puppet the hotel had currently and with everything that had happened, certain duties had fallen to the wayside. Current ‘guests’ of the hotel were expected to keep their rooms tidy themselves, only laundry being done by the puppet. As such it was fairly obvious the bed had been used, the indented mattress and imperfectly folded cotton sheets a clear sign of occupation.

The technician training in Eugenie’s brain started babbling about impossibilities again, so with a deep breath the girl stuffed it into the Pinocchio shaped box labelled ‘Not Now’ in the back of her mind.

The bathroom next, Eugenie took a moment to start running the bath, grateful for the hotel’s heated plumbing system. The large clawfoot cast iron tub would take a while to fill though, so she left it running while she found the sponge and ubiquitous violet scented soap that was so popular before the frenzy. There were towels on the rail, so she left the sponge and soap on the side table set by the head of the tub.

Movement in her periphery caused Eugenie to jump, withholding a pained wince as she saw Pinocchio hovering in the doorway. He didn’t say anything, just hesitated a moment before skirting the right hand wall to reach the sink diagonally opposite the door. It wasn’t a very large room, oblong in shape with the bath set against the far left wall, the sink and cabinet on the right.

Out of the corner of her eye Eugenie watched him splash his face, rinse his mouth then take a long thorough drink, cupping the cold water with his hands. She watched the way his throat moved as he swallowed, the dribble of water that traced the more pronounced curve of an adams apple. She ruthlessly quashed the small voice that wailed about the damage water could do to delicate internal mechanisms in a normal puppet, the circuits that could short and springs corrode. (The equally insistent spark of fascination, how her eyes wanted to both linger and shy away at the sight of such a simple action recieved the same treatment.)

Resolutely not thinking about what she just watched, Eugenie checked the temperature of the bath and turned off the taps.

“There, that should be hot enough, will you be fine cleaning up while I see to the lamp… and Gemini?”

A nod and a quiet “yes” was her reply. She told him where the soap and sponge were, that there were towels on the rail and slowly stood up to leave. Somehow despite his blindness Pinocchio managed to grasp her hand as she passed him, squeezing gently.

“Thank you, you didn’t need to do this…”

His voice was so soft yet so earnest, what little he said always thoughtful and kind. Eugenie felt warm, even as that little venemous voice whispered she didn't deserve it, weak as she was and blurted out the first words that came to her.

“W-well that’s what friends are for, you help each other out when you need it!”

The small, surprised smile that bloomed across his face was beautiful… but just a little heartbreaking to see and made part of her want to cross the tiny space and give him a hug. The unvoiced but obvious “ You see me as a friend? ” made her eyes prickle wetly. She squeezed his hand back, her own wordless reply “ of course I do silly ”, as a wobbly smile of her own curled her lips. He couldn’t see it but she didn’t think that really mattered at the moment.

Chapter Text

The small, surprised smile that bloomed across his face was beautiful… but just a little heartbreaking to see and made part of her want to cross the tiny space and give him a hug. The unvoiced but obvious “You see me as a friend?” made her eyes prickle wetly. She squeezed his hand back, her own wordless reply “of course I do silly”, as a wobbly smile of her own curled her lips. He couldn’t see it but she didn’t think that really mattered at the moment.

~~~

Several minutes later Eugenie sat at her workstation, the Monad lamp lying on its side before her. The exterior damage was worse than she initially thought, a full third of the lamp’s surface caved in around the vertical tear. The lamp may not look it but it was made of sturdy materials, the only reason it wasn’t in pieces from this kind of damage was the internal reinforcement.

The glass was smashed and mostly missing, the remaining shards sticking out dangerously from the twisted metal. Leather gloves donned and pliers in hand, Eugenie set about carefully removing the remaining glass, a cloth spread underneath to catch any dislodged pieces. When the final piece was safely set aside she adjusted her grip on the pliers and tried to bend one of the curling decorative metal rods. Because it was quite thin it did bend as she manipulated it… before it abruptly snapped, leaving her quietly cursing. Well, there was only one thing to do now, the whole lamp would need reforging anyway and she still had to get inside. Putting the pliers to one side Eugenie fetched her smallest hacksaw and got to work.

-------------------------

Upstairs Pinocchio lay with his head mostly underwater, rinsing the soap from his hair. He still felt that happy bubble of warmth in his chest, caused by Eugenie’s words. It was… really nice to be seen like that, not as a puppet (like the black rabbit brotherhood had spat at him; the word demeaning, a slur on their lips) but as a person worthy of a moment’s time and care.

He knew he was human in soul, all puppets were purely by the nature of ergo. Eugenie didn’t know that though, which made her words and actions all the more precious.

Rinsing the last of the suds away he sat up, squeezing what felt like half the bath out of his hair. While he couldn’t see if he was clean he felt clean, so he fumbled for a towel and stood up. Stepping out onto the tiled floor he suppressed a shiver, rivulets of water trailing down bare skin to puddle beneath his feet.

It wasn’t quite as bad as before but he still felt a little hypersensitive, the wet tiles shockingly cold against his skin. The water draining from the bath through the pipes and even his breathing sounded too loud, almost painfully harsh on his ears. He unfolded the towel to dry himself and flinched at the feeling, the long scratchy fibres unpleasant against his skin. For several long moments he just stood there, slowly and painstakingly wiping away the moisture with a grimace.

That… was not something he cared to repeat, even as he felt irrationally silly for disliking the texture of a towel of all things. Padding carefully into the bedroom Pinocchio stopped, a new problem suddenly dawning on him. He couldn’t see what clothes he’d be putting on. He’d have to do it by feel, as he could hardly go around naked or even shout for Eugenie’s help. (He knew he was anatomically human enough that it would be indecent.)

Near enough half an hour of fumbling later he was finally dressed(requisite undergarments and all). A silk shirt that wasn’t irritating to his skin, trousers that strangely felt a little short, an embroidered waistcoat and a pair of knee high hunting boots. No coat or cravat but he was dressed enough for staying in the hotel at least.

At a bit of a loss as to what to do next, Pinocchio found himself claiming a seat in the suite’s sitting room. (After the time he accidentally broke the lighter, decorative furniture Polendina had replaced all the seating with more… robust versions. At least nothing gave way under his puppet body’s weight.) He didn’t want to disturb Eugenie’s work so finding his way downstairs was out. He could hardly read like this either. Perhaps… yes, Gemini would probably appreciate some extra energy once he was repaired.

Standing he felt his way over to the credenza in the corner, kneeling to open the cabinet doors. Running a hand carefully along the bottles on the top shelf he found the squat, stocky one that held Gemini’s ergo ampoules. On impulse he also pulled out a taller bottle, he was feeling tired and a little hungry, so needed some himself. Also if he was to explain everything that happened on the island… he’d definitely need the energy.

Sitting back down he placed Gemini’s ampoules on the table, gently brushing what felt like crystal vials over to make room. Leaning back in the chair he popped the metal clamp and removed the glass and rubber cork from his own bottle.

The mellow sweetness of this unconcentrated ergo was far more pleasant than the saccharine, almost sickly taste of the highly distilled version needed for the pulse cells. It still made what passed as his stomach twist with guilt however, knowing what the ergo used to be. Even having been told by Sophia that liquid ergo held none of the memories of its more natural forms, with no ability to manifest an ego even recrystallized… it didn’t really help.

Sipping from the bottle he resigned himself to figuring out how to condense the convoluted tale into something easily explainable. At least, those things he could explain at all.

The Arm after all, was not something he could even begin to explain. He didn’t understand it himself; not where it came from, let alone why… The fingers of his right hand rubbed across the knuckles of his left, feeling the soft seemingly alive skin covering something that was certainly not the smooth metal joints he was used to. It should be an alien sensation… yet it felt perfectly natural.

Nothing about this should leave him calm and accepting, feeling like this was always his arm and yet, that’s how it was. He couldn’t even know if he had a puppet body anymore, the thought something he shied away from, almost like he was afraid of what the truth might be though he wasn't sure why. It... unsettled him even through the almost unnatural calmness of his thoughts. Maybe any change was just limited to the arm? He still got hungry, like he had for ergo before and he barely felt Eugenie when he moved her, she was so light. Perhaps it was this (hopefully temporary) blindness that was playing with his perception, putting him off balance. Hopefully it was. With a sigh, he resigned himself to just fumbling his way through anything to do with the Arm.

One thing he knew he wasn’t going to even mention, was Sophia.

It hurt too much, to know he hadn’t been able to save her, to give her the second chance he’d dearly hoped for. It hurt even to remember the unspeakable state he had found her in, the torture she’d endured. He'd known she wasn't truly there, unable to be seen by anyone else in the hotel, unable to touch or be touched. That didn't mean she couldn't give comfort, soothe his hurts or quiet his fears. The feel of her ergo wrapped snug and warm as a blanket around his when F... Geppetto had left him feeling small and stupid for asking questions. The time his joints had felt full of ground glass, phantom pain left over from one particularly vicious failure against R... the King of Puppets and that wicked, lacerating scythe. He'd lain in the rain, curled under the stargazer and unable to stand, as her intangible presence cooled and numbed the fiery pain until he could get up and try again. He had only been able to ease her suffering in the end, and now…

Now, the ethereal butterfly flutter of her ergo inside him was gone, only a ghostly trace remaining. He’d tried to grasp it, pull it forward in the hope she was still there somehow. It had been like trying to hold water or smoke, slipping through his metaphorical fingers to mix back into the deep well of blue within.

Pinocchio had learned about sadness as he experienced the world, seen it in the human survivors he had interacted with. The woman who was desperate for her baby; the child who was too sick to move and missed his already departed friends.

Antonia had carried a pervasive air of melancholy around before she received the cure.

Even Venigni in quiet moments Pinocchio had seen grow sombre, shoulders bowed under some invisible weight.

Now Eugenie had broken down in front of him, some unseen weight finally too heavy for her to withstand. The way she’d just crumbled was awful, more so that he couldn’t see it happening. He could only guess what triggered it, didn’t know enough about being human to say for sure.

The rawness of it had shaken him, a strange prickling heat behind his sealed eyes as he offered the only, fumbling comfort he could. Embraced against his chest and shushed, like the woman had when presented the puppet baby. Like he'd hoped one day to be able to embrace (or be embraced by) Sophia.

Now that same prickle was back, a pressure in his eyes he didn’t like. It was a burning weight in his chest, a constriction in his throat when he thought of Sophia, of the one person other than Antonia he might have called M...

~~~

Some time later, after Pinocchio had bottled up that awful feeling and retrieved his belt and associated pouches from the bathroom floor, he heard footsteps coming down the hall.

Moving to the door he opened it just as the light carpet muffled steps reached it, the scent of tea and mineral oil confirming it was Eugenie. He evidently surprised her, the abrupt stop and indrawn breath telling enough.

“Oh! Pinocchio… I see you’re all cleaned up… Good, right then let’s get downstairs and you can see Gemini. Um, that is… you know what I mean!”

After she blurted that out in a rather hurried fashion, she seized his hand and pulled expectantly. Feeling strangely bemused at her odd tone he followed, closing the suite door behind him.

Was she embarrassed for some reason?

~~~

Face feeling like it was on fire, Eugenie led Pinocchio downstairs, berating her own reaction. Honestly, just because she hadn’t seen him dressed down like that before didn’t mean she should be tripping over her own words. Yes he looked very nice in the dark forest green silk shirt and charcoal black waistcoat but that wasn’t an excuse! She should probably be glad for small mercies, that he couldn’t see her face resembling a tomato right now.

She risked a glance back as they reached the landing, wondering why he hadn’t just put on the outfit on his bed…

Oh.

Now she felt even more embarrassed. She never actually told him it was laid out, too preoccupied with the pleasant, bubbly feeling he’d inspired.

Huffing in annoyance at her own silly reactions she led him down the last of the stairs, pulling him over to her workstation alcove.

“Here we are. Just a moment, I’ll get the other stool…”

Dropping his hand she darted behind the desk, determinedly not looking down as she found and dragged the sturdy piece of furniture over, biting her tongue as the pain in her shoulder flared.

“There we go, just sit here.”

Watching him perch gingerly on the seat, she again noted that silver fall of hair, at least six inches longer than it had been when still dark. An idea, more an impulse struck her and she acted on it before she could overthink things. Rummaging around in a drawer below where her ornaments sat she retrieved a leather tie, faded blue dye almost hiding the worn but neatly stitched characters in black thread.

“Pinocchio… would you let me tie your hair back? The length it is now, it could get tangled very easily. If-if not that’s fine it was ju…”

“Alright.”

The easy acquiescence was something she probably should have expected, given how mild mannered he usually was. 

Walking up behind him she hesitated, adjusting her glasses nervously. Holding the end of the worn leather in her mouth she tentatively reached for his hair, pulling the silky strands back. This close she could see it really was silvery rather than grey, an almost polished shine reflecting light as it slid between her fingers. Gathering it at the base of his neck she quickly slid the tie into place, wrapping and tightening the leather.

“There, is that okay? I can always make it higher if you don’t like it.”

One of his hands reached up to carefully feel the low tail, a scant few escaped strands still framing his face. A tiny smile curled at the edge of his lips.

“I like it.”

Eugenie found herself smiling back, even though he couldn’t see it. Sitting on her own stool she pulled over the little box she’d put the cricket puppet in.

“Now the good news. Gemini is mostly functional, barring some minor cosmetic damage and a malfunctioning actuator. Mr. Venigni will probably need to fix that, I don’t have the experience with such tiny puppets to do it safely.”

Opening the box she scooped the cricket up, feeling tiny metal insect claws gripping at her fingers. While the two large back legs were still in working order both middle legs remained curled up, stuck half folded against the small metal carapace. One of the long thin decorative antennae was completely snapped off, an easy thing to fix though.

“The bad news is that the lamp and thus Gemini’s external voice box need significant repairs. Due to his size he doesn’t have a human speech capable voicebox, that’s in the lamp and he needs to be connected to use it. He’s not going to be speaking anytime soon.”

An almost petulant chirrup emanated from between her fingers, the small glass eyes with their soft blue hue staring up at her.

A sigh made her look up, seeing some of the tension in Pinocchio’s frame ease.

“At least he’s here and not broken. I was afraid he’d fallen out when I realised his lamp was damaged…”

The hint of relief in his voice gave way to mirth as he continued.

“Although I imagine Gemini is inconsolable, he can’t regale anyone with his witty banter.”

Looking down expectantly, instead of whatever might pass as offence to the insect puppet she saw he was just staring intently at Pinocchio. A little puzzled at that reaction, Eugenie impulsively reached out, grasping Pinocchio’s right wrist and pulling his hand towards her, depositing the cricket in his palm.

Both puppets seemed startled at that (though it felt wrong to think of Pinocchio as a puppet, not when she’d felt that pulsing beat under her hand). Gemini flailed a little at the sudden move, almost toppling over before he got his legs splayed out to steady his metal body.

Pinocchio meanwhile sat up straight, hand cupping around the wobbly puppet in surprise.

“Gemini?”

The cricket sat quietly in his palm before giving a small chirp in reply. The tiny puppet seemed to be studying him closely, something Pinocchio was oblivious to when he addressed Eugenie.

“I’ve never seen him out of the lamp before… or well, not seen but you know what I mean.”

He waved his free hand at his still sealed eyes dismissively.

“How long will it take to repair the lamp?”

As he spoke, his thumb was ever so lightly stroking Gemini’s back, the cricket seemingly frozen in surprise at the unexpected gesture of affection.

Eugenie tried to hum then winced, turning it into a cough as she did some mental calculations, her wooden pecking bird silent and still.

“I need to consult Mr. Venigni on some parts, I’m not familiar with the connectors that allow Gemini to use the external voicebox. If I had to guess… no more than two weeks, maybe less if I can find Monad lamp parts.”

Pinocchio hummed in reply, face angled down to ‘stare’ at Gemini.

“Oh yes before I forget, Gemini was holding a piece of ergo when I pulled him out of the lamp. It’s a tiny, broken looking thing but he was very protective of it.”

Protective was putting it mildly. The tiny puppet had almost screeched when Eugenie tried to take it, even going as far as nipping her fingers hard enough to break skin. She wasn’t going to mention that though, it hardly bled and didn’t really hurt.

The fragment was still sitting in the small box she’d taken the cricket from, its cracked and almost melted surface unusual to see. It was maybe a third the size of the cricket itself, right on the edge of functional for a puppet core… if it was in pristine condition, which it most certainly was not.

Why was the tiny puppet so defensive of it? It was practically scrap as far as usefulness. Pinocchio interrupted her musings while reaching for the pouch on his belt, head tilted contemplatively.

“Could it be part of his lamp in any way?”

Huh, that was a good question, one she didn’t actually know the answer to.

“I… maybe? If it was…”

Her train of thought was derailed when Pinocchio pulled a small bottle from his belt pouch, the contents rattling slightly. The blue glow was unmistakably ergo but why was he…?

“Gemini, are you hungry?”

Wait what?!

The way both turned to ‘look’ at her told Eugenie she had said that out loud.

“But puppets can’t eat…?”

Pinocchio had an odd look on his face but he did explain, if in a strangely hesitant manner.

“Some can, though not ‘food’ in a human sense. Gemini needs extra ergo on occasion, extra energy.”

He unscrewed the tethered lid of the bottle one handed, carefully tipping out two tiny filled glass ampoules. They were more rounded than a typical ampoule, sealed with a tiny blob of wax to keep the liquid contained.

A quick skim with his fingers found the glass ampoules and he offered one to the cricket. It was only a little larger than Gemini’s head, which meant the cricket could manipulate it quite easily.

She could only watch in fascination as Gemini bit and pulled out the wax plug sealing the tiny container, before sipping the glowing contents.

Eugenie had never even considered that puppets might need to ‘top up’ the liquid ergo in their systems. Most servitor model puppets (butlers, maids etc) only had small liquid ergo reserves cycling through their vital components in a completely sealed system. General use and wear didn’t affect those levels unless a leak developed, which usually took years.

Mind spinning at this new information, dozens of questions flew to the tip of her tongue. What sort of internal valve and tubing system allowed for direct consumption of liquid ergo?

Did it feed directly into the ergo circulatory pump or was there a reserve and drip feed mechanism in place?

Was it a form of open ergo circulation that resulted in the loss or additional power requirements?

What sort of specialist puppet models needed this type of system? Was it size restricted or…

Did Pinocchio have this kind of system?!

 As painful as it was, Eugenie swallowed all those burning questions, biting her tongue to stop anything blurting out.

One look and she could see the questions would be too much. Pinocchio had that slightly blank look on his face that meant he was nervous or apprehensive. She’d seen it a lot in the beginning, especially when he was exposed to too much new ‘social stimulus’.

He was quiet and generally reserved in nature, more prone to listening than joining in a conversation. Before she had learned that, she’d often overwhelmed him when she got excited about things, nattering away about new legion arm designs or weapons. She always felt guilty when she realised what she’d done, trying to tone down her enthusiasm or catch herself before she could start.

Pinocchio knew her well enough to tell the eruption of questions was coming and wasn’t looking forward to it, so…

“Oh, that’s interesting.”

 She could see the slow dawning surprise and poorly hidden relief when that was all she said. The remaining full ampoule got put back into the bottle while he waited for Gemini to finish. She didn’t let the silence go on for long enough to become awkward.

“I took a quick look at the hwando and it might take a while to clean up, at least a few days.”

His brow furrowed slightly and she realised her mistake.

“I meant the Two-Dragons sword. That kind of blade is known as a hwando. I don’t know how it happened but the sword is crusted shut in its sheath. I’m going to need to clean it up carefully to avoid damaging anything.”

She made sure to let the humour show in her voice, well aware Pinocchio tended to take things at face value.

“I don’t know how you’re so rough with weapons, at least you didn’t break it like that poor rapier you first used.”

A faintly petulant tone coloured his reply but he must have understood, as a tiny smile quirked the edge of his mouth.

“I technically didn’t break it, the forge puppet at Venigni’s factory melted it.”

Any quip she was going to make was lost at the sound of rapid footsteps on marble, a blur of red and an overjoyed shout.

“Compagno!”

Chapter Text

“I technically didn’t break it, the forge puppet at Venigni’s factory melted it.”

Any quip she was going to make was lost at the sound of rapid footsteps on marble, a blur of red and an overjoyed shout.

“Compagno!”

~~~

In the ruins of Krat, the sunlight struggled to reach the streets. Great spires of black clawed at the sky like grasping fingers, the shadow of the kroud blanketing the ground in darkness. Collapsed buildings and streets split with deep crevasses made passage all but impossible in places, monstrous creatures haunting what stable ground remained.

The area around Krat central station was an unrecognisable nightmare of darkness and death for any normal human. No survivors lingered here, even veteran stalkers would meet a swift end at the first misstep. Yet, there was a hunter in these tenebrous streets.

A shadow moved, briefly catching what wan light penetrated the pervasive gloom. Pale hair and reflective gold glinted, a slim, unassuming figure cloaked in shades of charcoal black.

Another movement, this one from a bloated, shambling mass of tumorous growth. Each laboured, wheezing breath sprayed a fine mist of acidic fluid, the warped remains of a human face staring sightlessly ahead.

It was in his way.

A quick flick of his wrist was all it took, a flash of spinning metal flying from the shadows to cleave the warped creature in twain. It made no sound, just staggered and collapsed; both halves sliding apart with a dull, meaty splat.

The ring gleamed wetly in the pallid light, rotten blue-green blood painting the eternal serpent in a ghastly hue.

The hunter walked on, intent on other prey.

~~~

Despite knowing it was coming the contact made Pinocchio flinch on his stool, nearly dropping Gemini as he braced against the edge of the table to keep his balance. Hands landed on his shoulders from behind for a quick, hearty clap.

“Compagno it’s so good to see you back, we were worried when you didn’t return or send a message!”

The hands retreated and Pinocchio knew from past observation that the man was gesturing widely.

“Scusami, my friend. I’m just so glad you’re back in one piece. Was the island truly so terrible it turned your hair grey?”

The last was said with an air of lightheartedness but he knew Venigni was looking him over, cataloguing any changes.

He was saved from answering by Eugenie gently telling the inventor off, before gingerly scooping both Gemini and the ampoule from his hand.

He wasn’t surprised at her caution, she likely didn’t have any experience with liquid ergo as a technician specialising in weapons. Plus he knew the joints in Gemini’s outer plating would be glowing with the new ergo.

Pinocchio twisted around on the stool, his right side turned towards the man. Venigni immediately spotted and focused on his sealed eyes, thankfully missing the most obvious difference for now.

“Santo cielo what happened here?!”

Heavier footsteps heralded the approach of Pulcinella, his slightly staticky voice echoing the same sentiment as Venigni.

Keeping his left arm carefully obscured by his body, Pinocchio used his right hand to lightly rub under one eye.

“I… don’t really know to be honest. I 'woke up' unable to open them.”

Eugenie chimed in as he heard her stand and come up beside him.

“It looks better than before. It’s a lot more dried out and, I don’t know, flakey than it appeared earlier. There’s less of it too, like the loose edges just came off when you washed up.”

Venigni listened in silence, probably in his ‘thinking pose’.

“Interesting…”

Pinocchio could tell the man was close, probably bent over peering at his face. He could smell his cologne, a strong mix of musk and vanilla.

“Hm… Well since it appears to be breaking down on its own it may be best to leave it. I wouldn’t want to try solvents on such lifelike skin anyway. Even I admit I wouldn’t know where to begin on making repairs should it be needed.”

Eugenie shifted her weight, shuffling her feet as though uncomfortable with the topic. He then heard her move, the sound of glass scraping briefly on wood and a faint rattle.

“Here Pinocchio, don’t forget about this.”

Guessing she was holding out the bottle of ergo ampoules, Pinocchio turned to face her. Since she was to his left however, that put his left arm in full view.

He heard the moment Venigni realised what he was seeing. After a brief pause there was a sharp inhale, the inventor actually stepping back in shock.

“Mio dio…”

~~~

After that, it was quickly decided to move to somewhere they could all sit and talk. At Pulcinella's gentle but firm chivvying that place became the hotel’s expansive kitchen, the long wood table and sturdy benches adequate space and seating. (Pulcinella was also insistent that both humans have breakfast that did not consist solely of coffee or tea.)

While the butler threw together those meals from the hotel’s remaining food stores, Venigni was ardently examining his hand and forearm, sleeve rolled up for access. The man’s ever present gloves were discarded to properly feel the differences. Twisting it this way and that he tested the flex of fingers and wrist, marvelling at the way the palm could bend and move just like a human’s. He even exclaimed over the downy hair present on the skin, asking how much sensation he had from various pressure of touches.

“Truly extraordinary… Pinocchio, by any measure I can think of, this appears to be flesh and bone. I… cannot think of any technology that even comes close to this level of mimicry. It is perfectly lifelike… May I see your other hand in comparison?”

He wordlessly rolled up his sleeve and offered his right hand, almost sure the inventor would find no difference between the two. His own reluctant exploration earlier had shown too many changes for only the arm to be, as Venigni put it, ‘ flesh and bone ’. He didn’t even know if he wanted to be proven correct, the idea more frightening than tantalising.

Sure enough the man slowed his exploration after only a few moments, palpating the knuckles and joints of his fingers with extra care.

“That’s…”

Venigni turned his arm so the underside was exposed, hesitating before pressing two fingers lightly to the skin on the thumb side of his wrist.

A long beat of silence passed before the inventor repeated the same motion with his left arm, saying nothing.

Seemingly done with his examinations, Venigni released his hand with an odd, shaky sigh. His voice came out muffled, as though he was speaking through his hands.

“Well my friend… I can find no difference between the two. I… You have a pulse and… I cannot explain it. Short of checking your internals… To the eye I can’t tell you’re anything other than human.”

That was… Well, he wasn’t going to focus on the feeling those words stirred in him. Not if he wanted to remain composed enough to get through the coming conversation.

The inventor stood, walking over to Pulcinella before rummaging through one of the cupboards with the clinking of glass and ceramic.

Of more immediate concern…

Fingers drifting almost unwillingly to his wrist, Pinocchio copied Venigni’s gesture on his own wrist, feeling a slow pulsing under the skin, like fluid through a very thin tube. A now familiar, queasy sensation tightened his throat at yet another difference in his body compared to what should be. Puppet tubing was thick rubber or solid brass to hold in the high pressure oil or ergo. It didn’t reach the extremities like this, smaller piping built inside the metal ‘bones’ allowing transfer to the joints of the hands and feet. Human hearts meanwhile pumped blood through similar biological means, but he didn’t know enough to say if this ‘pulse’ was the same or any different.

Eugenie had been silent as a mouse this whole time, just her breathing and the occasional rustle of clothing betraying her presence. Now however she seemed to pick up on something, perhaps mistaking what she saw for confusion as she reached over to tap his hand and slide her bared wrist under his fingers. He hesitated before pressing his fingers against the warm skin, a very similar 'pulse' fluttering against his fingertips.

Following a spur of the moment sense of curiosity he grasped her hand more fully, noting she didn’t have her glove on. Keeping his grip loose and gentle he started ‘examining’ the hand he held, imitating some of the simpler motions Venigni performed. If nothing else, doing so distracted him from his own changes for a moment.

(He could feel she was a little surprised, tensing a moment before she relaxed and let him continue.)

Her hand was smaller than his, the wrist and fingers deceptively delicate. Deceptive, because he could feel the marks of hard work and hours of toiling over stubborn metal etched into her skin. Calluses dotted her fingers and palm, little islands of thickened skin to protect against pressure and friction. (He'd asked her once what they were, when he first noticed them.) Scars left raised lines sprinkled over the digits, most fine enough they were barely felt while a few others still stood out.

One in particular actually caused a stirring of concern, a knotted angry line that ran from the base of her thumb diagonally across her palm. It continued further, down the far side of her wrist before curving in to trail halfway along the underside of her forearm.

Why had he never noticed this before? This would have been a nasty wound, the skin still puckered to the touch and likely a shiny red to the eye. An unpleasant sensation twisted deep inside him at the thought of this happening and not noticing, frowning in distress.

“Eugenie, when did this happen?”

He unconsciously cradled her hand, the thumb of his left stroking little circles all along the top part of the scar on her palm. It took her a moment to answer, something he couldn’t quite name colouring her tone.

“It happened when the Workshop Tower collapsed. I was pinned under some rubble. I’m fine though, it’s not as bad as it seems.”

She could obviously read the disbelief on his face, hand tensing but not yet pulling away.

“It’s not! I just… wasn’t careful enough, it reopened a couple of times.”

The twisting sensation in Pinocchio’s middle tightened, a heavy disquieting knot. He didn’t like not knowing about this. Really didn’t like the thought that one of the few people he knew and cared about had been so close to death, before he even knew her. Not knowing she’d been hurt and in pain, or at least discomfort the whole time he knew her… Suddenly the fact she was more often than not sitting down in comparison to Venigni’s energetic pacing gained a new dimension. As were the occasional days she was just absent, ‘busy with personal matters’ as Polendina put it. There was little chance she got out of… of a collapsed building with only a cut arm.

Pinocchio didn’t know how long it took for humans to heal from injuries, but it had been nearly two months since the Tower fell, by his estimate. That was longer than he'd been awake, a really long time, at least from his perspective.

He shifted his grip on her hand, covering the worst of the scar instead of stroking. He wished he could just wipe it away, erase it like what happened when he used Sophia’s special pocket watch. Uneven tingles spread through his hands and up his arms, little numbing currents that rippled along his fingers. His increasingly distressed thoughts were interrupted by Venigni, returning with hot drinks. Eugenie pulled her hand away and Pinocchio reluctantly let go, shaking away the staticky tingle before crossing his arms.

(He couldn’t see the weaponsmith do something similar.)

“Ah Miss Eugenie, I would have made our usual but I fear we might need something more calming than coffee for the tale to come. I hope you don’t mind if I indulge in some as well.”

So saying, Venigni must have passed Eugenie her cup, the warm aroma a somewhat familiar smell. It was chamomile wasn’t it? Pinocchio had found her drinking it on occasion, usually when she was acting more subdued than normal… Damn it, he really was unobservant wasn’t he?

“Now my friends…”

Before Venigni could continue, Pulcinella came across with their breakfast, setting down the plates and bowls with soft thuds.

“Now Sir you shall be eating.”

The butler puppet briefly moved away, before coming around to Pinocchio’s side and placing something in front of him.

“A glass of water, young Sir. It wouldn’t do to have a long conversation without some kind of drink.”

Ah that’s right, Pulcinella had caught him getting a drink in the kitchen before, hadn’t he?

Unexpectedly grateful for something to occupy his hands, he thanked the butler and grasped the glass carefully, taking a sip.

(Across from him, Venigni’s eyebrows were encroaching on his hairline in surprise. Eugenie waved a hand to get his attention and shook her head. Not now.)

Pinocchio hadn’t been around enough human food to recognise the different scents, but it suddenly struck him how inviting it all smelled. He’d been fine before, yet now he felt distinct pangs of hunger. He’d just had half a bottle of ergo barely an hour ago, he shouldn’t be hungry! Despite that however, the gnawing sensation in what passed as his stomach was back, and growing with every sniff of the appetising food.

He steepled his fingers in front of his face, surreptitiously breathing through his mouth as though that might help. It didn’t. Taking another sip of his water Pinocchio determinedly ignored both his hunger and the smells, listening to the clink and scrape of cutlery.

Figuring he should say something to fill the relative silence, he asked a question that had been nagging at him a little since he woke up.

“I meant to ask, how is Lady Antonia? Before I left she seemed…”

He trailed off when he noticed the sudden silence around him, a little noise of… was that dismay from Eugenie?

“Oh, oh I forgot you don’t know! Pinocchio…”

Her voice broke slightly and Venigni interjected, tone sombre.

“I… oh dear. I am deeply sorry to be the bearer of this news mio amico. Lady Antonia passed away two nights ago. You’ve been gone for three.”

Those words… they didn’t make sense at first. They couldn’t be right.

Pinocchio put his glass down roughly, water splashing on the table, on his hand. He didn’t notice, a faint ringing in his ears that got louder by the moment.

Lady Antonia couldn’t be… She had been fine when he left the hotel, a little shaken up by the attack but otherwise fine! She was cured, had told him how much better she felt, how happy she was. She couldn’t be…

He remembered Giangio’s voice, warning him the cure couldn’t undo the damage petrification caused, just remove the pain and stop it from encroaching further. That it would allow a peaceful passing.

…

…

Someone was talking but it might as well have been static, unimportant compared to this horrible sensation gripping his heart. He remembered how fragile Antonia had been with age and sickness. How gnarled and stiff her hands were, yet how soft and kind they felt when they patted his or reached up to redo a button he’d missed on his waistcoat.

Though it had felt more like remembering something long forgotten, she had still done her best to teach him. How to do more complex chords on the piano, how to tie his cravat and even darn small rips in his clothes.

She showed him books he might like and told him stories of Krat from before, when she had the energy. He had found wildflowers once, picking one on impulse to give to her. She had positively beamed on receiving his silly little gift. She told him it was a christmas rose, a flower born from tears.

She wouldn’t ever do any of that again, now. She would never get to show him how to dance, as unlikely as it had been given her age. She was gone, and he had never realised how much her kindness meant until that moment.

It was like a knife in his chest, this twisting, stabbing pain that was somehow worse than all the times he’d really been impaled. It hurt, climbing his throat and constricting like a vice, his breath stuttering and sharp. His eyes burned, an aching pressure that built and built until the darkness gave way and tore.

Heat spilled out and traced lines of fire down his cheeks, his vision a too bright blurred mess.

He brought his hands up to wipe the wetness away, to hide maybe. This feeling was too much, too strong to push down… 

He couldn’t stop this pain, couldn’t pull out a dagger that didn’t exist.

~~~

To Eugenie, it was clear Pinocchio wasn’t taking this upsetting news well. She saw the shock, the denial in the way he flinched, near dropping his water and leaning back as though the words were a physical blow.

A long moment of stillness followed before he trembled, form bowing as he curled in on himself, looking so very human in that moment. His mouth quivered and his breath stuttered on the inhale, throat moving as he swallowed convulsively.

It didn’t look like he was hearing what Mr. Venigni was now saying, mind still stuck on his sorrowful statement.

Another shaky inhale and his shoulders shook, jaw clenching as his face crumpled.

Despite everything about him that was so different now, she still didn't expect this. The raw pain visible on his face, the tears that spilled out of suddenly opening eyes.

She couldn’t stop herself, those tears all the impetus needed to bolt from her seat and wrap him in a hug, logic and knowledge of puppets be damned. Answering tears stung her own eyes as his forehead slowly lowered onto her shoulder, one of his hands inching up her back to fist in the material of her top.

He didn’t make a sound other than those shuddering breaths but she could feel wetness soaking through her vest and blouse.

Across the table Mr. Venigni stared, breath caught by what he was witnessing. His own eyes filled as he watched, too many hours spent grieving the woman he’d seen as family leaving them close to the surface. There was something else though, the final pieces of a puzzle he'd almost been reluctant to solve clicking into place. The full picture revealed itself... and he realised he'd been a blind fool. He'd seen more than enough to put it together, but he never had. A tiny unheard whisper escaped him, heart feeling like it was breaking as he remembered being read the story of a little wooden puppet as a boy.

“A real boy indeed…”

~~~

Pinocchio didn't know how long the... episode lasted, until he'd finally been able to wrestle that awful, painful feeling under control. He tried to open his eyes properly but the light hurt, cheery morning sunbeams streaming in the kitchen’s large windows and skylight as his breathing steadied. (He tried not to think about how strange it felt just breathing now, the way his whole chest expanded instead of the smooth suction of his air pump.)

Already feeling hot and raw from crying, Pinocchio’s eyes really didn’t take the transition from muted darkness to blinding sunshine very well at all, stinging madly. He felt off balance, shaky and raw, shocked at the intensity of that emotion.

He tried squinting up at Eugenie, the girl still standing beside him with a supportive hand on his back. That brief glance only awarded him with stabbing pain and a blurry view of her face, the lenses of her glasses reflecting brightly. He slammed his eyes closed and swallowed the hiss that wanted to escape, wiping them with his shirt sleeve as more moisture welled up behind closed lids.

Eugenie leaned forward, blocking the direct sun with her shadow.

“Are you... okay now? Hm? Oh, is the light too bright? Um, this might not be the best advice but, if your eyes aren't adjusting try putting your head in your arms and blink for a while. See if that helps.”

Doing as she suggested did seem to work, though it took a few minutes before he could look up without squinting. It just gave him more time to regain some semblance of calm, despite it being more a mask than true calm.

Once Pinocchio could actually look at the two now sitting humans he immediately saw the signs of stress.

Venigni had dark bags under his eyes, his ever present hat was gone and the stress lines on his forehead were even more pronounced. Pinocchio couldn’t put a name to the complicated mix of emotions in the inventor’s gaze, but he could at least tell from his relaxed posture and smile that it was... probably good?

Looking at Eugenie he could see much of the same, skin a little paler than normal and shadows under pink tinged eyes, irritated from crying earlier. It didn’t stop him from easily reading the relief and curiosity all over her face, leaning forward to meet his gaze.

Eyes drifting downward he found the damp patch he’d left on her shoulder, then saw she was still missing her scarf and Workshop Union brooch. Her blouse hung open a little, a makeshift pin holding it loosely closed. As a result, it didn’t hide the mottled blue, black and purple ring of discolouration on her throat.

Bruises.

~~~

That first squinting glance, Eugenie hadn’t seen much more than a flash of intense blue and a thin black slit (the technician in her wondered if his corneal shutters had temporarily malfunctioned, his pupils were certainly round now). Now that she could get a proper look though, she could see that they were different.

The colour of his eyes had changed to a dark, rich sapphire hue rather than the luminous ergo blue of before. Their innate glow was almost gone, yet even more noticeable because of it. Only the thinnest sliver of light was left, a flickering, sparking ring around the pupil like a corona of blue-white fire.

That was surprising enough but when he blinked and his eyes flicked over to focus on her…

It must have been a change in the angle of the light or something that caused it, but what happened next was captivating.

Ripples of incredibly vivid purple shimmered across his irises, electric blue and cyan sparks twinkling like stars in their wake. Another blink, a slight shift in his gaze and the cyan was overtaken by a bloom of gold, glittering like fireworks.

It was an impossible display, leaving her speechless and staring.

She didn’t notice the frown, or the way he was staring at her throat until he spoke up.

“You didn’t say they hurt you.”

Pinocchio’s voice was oddly clipped, mouth a tight line as he stared at the dark contusions.

While he certainly wasn’t wearing the same thunderous expression as when the hotel was attacked, he was clearly angry… and concerned. That almost golden gaze was a clear mix of distress and anger, even as his face remained as studiously neutral as possible.

(Venigni was just watching silently, observing both of them with a disturbingly knowing, sad gaze.)

Eugenie fought the abrupt urge to shrink down, pull her collar up and hide those marks from sight.

She blurted out the story she’d pleaded Belle to tell if anyone asked. 

“It didn’t look that bad until the next day, it was only a bit red to start with. One of those rabbit stalkers, he had a puppet hand on his shoulder, came right to my workstation. He started grabbing weapons then tore my ascot off when I tried to stop him. Belle dragged me upstairs before anything else happened.”

Thankfully neither Venigni (surely he couldn’t know) nor Pinocchio knew that was a blatant lie. The inventor had been speaking with Antonia when the power cut out, so had been whisked upstairs quickly and hadn’t seen what actually happened.

No, the rabbit stalker hadn’t gone straight for the displayed weapons, in the semi darkness of the lobby he’d gone straight for her.

Appearing out of the gloom like that, the stark white puppet hand and lenses of his mask the only visible thing about him, he had been a frightful sight.

He’d smashed her desk lamp and kicked her stool out of the way, knocking her down with a harsh shove. She’d tried to scramble away, to reach a weapon but he’d just hauled her back with ease.

Straddling her waist the stalker had pinned both her wrists above her head, ignored her pained gasp and leaned right in to her face, hissing venomously about “making that damn puppet feel even a fraction of the pain it caused us”.

“Plus, a little birdie told me that mechanical devil likes you, so this should hurt even more.”

In a full panic now, Eugenie had tried to scream but the stalker had grabbed and twisted her ascot hard in his fist. 

With only one hand free, she didn’t quite have the physical strength to loosen his grip, nor the breath to fight. Her feet kicked frantically but only hit bare floorboards and his mask stopped her scrabbling fingers from reaching his eyes.

In the background her little wooden bird pecked rhythmically against its pole.

Half unconscious from lack of air, the sudden release of pressure had been a relief at first… until she realised her ascot was gone… and a large rough hand was inside her open blouse, the buttons of her vest already undone.

The stalker’s other hand had released her wrist and was undoing the belt of her apron. His fingers were cold on her waist, where blouse and vest had ridden up to expose bare skin.

The smell of damp leather and sweat filled her nose, her own terrified face reflecting in the lenses of the rabbit mask.

When Belle appeared she had seemed like a literal avenging angel, face a rictus of fury as she hauled the stalker off. Forgoing any weapon but her fists, the tall soldier had grabbed the man in a choke hold before yanking him away and punching him in the back of the head, hard.

He went down like a pile of bricks and Belle wasted no time, scooping Eugenie off the floor and racing up the stairs to Geppetto’s office.

It was only afterwards the girl realised Belle had done all that with a lacerated leg, courtesy of a spear wielding black rabbit stalker. The woman had only sighed when Eugenie begged her, at the door of the office, not to mention what actually happened.

It had taken every ounce of strength she had to keep up the pretence of being alright. Once Pinocchio had confirmed the stalkers were gone and chased after them, she had taken the longest, hottest bath she could stand.

She scrubbed herself raw, but she didn’t cry.

She wouldn’t cry now either, even though the reminder made her feel sick. It didn’t happen, Belle made sure of that. Almost didn’t count, especially not in the face of all the death and suffering plaguing other survivors.

“Nothing else happened.”

Pinocchio read something in her face or tone and the gold dimmed, mostly winking out in favour of a few, subdued twinkles of lilac. Before he could say anything she abruptly stood, turning for the door.

“I forgot my arnica balm, I’ll… I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

~~~

Feeling a bit lost, Pinocchio watched Eugenie almost run out the door. Turning to look at Venigni, he watched as the man sighed and rubbed his face with both hands.

“I can see you don’t quite understand, my young friend. You should talk to the brave lady Belle when you have a chance, any fumbling explanation of mine is sure to be more confusing than enlightening. For now though, perhaps you should follow Miss Eugenie, see if she’s alright.”

Still feeling confused, he nevertheless realised the black rabbit stalker had done something bad to Eugenie, so he followed Venigni’s suggestion.

Just going out the door, the inventor’s voice made him pause.

“Pinocchio one moment! Can you tell me, is the black rabbit stalker with the puppet hand dead?”

It was asked with such calmness that it took him a few seconds to answer, not used to that tone coming from the man.

“Yes, he is. They all are.”

Venigni nodded and Pinocchio turned to leave, but not before hearing the dark, vindictive tone in his reply.

“Good.”

Chapter Text

“Pinocchio one moment! Can you tell me, is the black rabbit stalker with the puppet hand dead?”

It was asked with such calmness that it took him a few seconds to answer, not used to that tone coming from the man.

“Yes, he is. They all are.”

Venigni nodded and Pinocchio turned to leave, but not before hearing the dark, vindictive tone in his reply.

“Good.”

~~~

Walking through the double doors onto the upper floor of the lobby, it was with relief that Pinocchio spotted Spring batting at a loose luggage tag.

He hadn’t been able to look for her after the attack, so it eased something in his chest to see that the tubby cat was unhurt.

He could have sworn she was thinner when he first arrived, but then again she couldn’t stand him anywhere near her to start with. Plus he supposed those supplies he found weren’t only feeding the human survivors at the hotel, he had gone to find one specific shop on Elysion Boulevard at Eugenie’s request once. The stylised posters of cats and dogs (very different looking than their puppet equivalents) had still looked surprisingly new and untouched as he gathered what she asked for.

Kneeling down Pinocchio copied the trilling prrrt sound she always made on entering a room. Almost immediately her head swivelled towards him and she abandoned the luggage tag, waddling over with her tail in the air. She made the same trill in greeting, barely stopping to sniff him before she was standing on her back legs to headbutt his chin.

Running one hand down her back he scratched under her chin with the other, loud purrs vibrating through his hand as he scooped her up for a cuddle. The feel of her simpler, animal ergo resonating with bright, uncomplicated happiness was very soothing and he took a moment to just sit, face buried in her fur. It helped to push back the feeling of loss still so perilously close to the surface, anchoring him in the here and now. Her purr was small but it still unwound his springs (whether he still had any or not). Purring was such a soothing sound, maybe he could still…?

He didn’t stop to second guess himself, question whether the changes had extended to his voice box or not. He just did it, a brief hum that dropped in octaves until some natural switch was flipped and the hum changed to a purr. It felt different than before, the vibration stronger, more of a rumble right at the base of his throat than the electric hum of a component making a sound it wasn’t really made to produce.

Spring really seemed to like it though, her own purr getting louder as she wriggled around to jam her head under his chin, soft little paws kneading at his waistcoat and no doubt plucking the embroidery loose.

He couldn’t look down but he could feel that round belly, stretching the skin under her fur. The bright little sparks buried in her ergo, (quite different to anything he’d felt from the humans) seemed to echo her happiness, little bubbly lights that seemed more distinct every time he felt them. He’d been tempted to ask about it but none of the humans would have known what he was talking about, and Gemini had only said “he’d see with time, it’ll be a pleasant surprise.”

Well, at least she didn’t seem to notice any difference in him, that was heartening.

Purr petering out he unhooked those little paws and carefully set her down, standing up as Spring immediately wound round his legs, her tail making question marks as she mewed loudly. One last head scratch and a gently tossed luggage tag to get Spring’s attention, then he made his escape towards Eugenie’s suite. Something seemed to tug his gaze towards Geppetto’s office but he resolutely turned away. No more distractions.

~~~

Eugenie barely made it into her suite before she was bolting for the toilet, nausea turning into miserable retching. Tears prickled at her closed eyes as her stomach violently rejected her breakfast, the smell leading to further dry heaves.

This was so stupid, she shouldn’t feel like this! He didn’t… he didn’t …

Nausea still churned in her gut and her skin crawled with the too vivid flashes of memory. She gripped the rim of the toilet with shaking hands, reaching up to pull the chain and flush the mess away.

Her ribs complained from the repeated jostling, a radiating ache from her back, flaring out and wrapping under her right arm where the bruising was worst after the Workshop collapse.

She remembered what the surgeon specialist stalker had told her when the no nonsense woman looked over her injuries. The woman had been hard faced and perfunctory as she cleaned and bandaged the worst open wounds. She knew Eugenie wasn’t going to drop dead then and there, and she had other patients to see.

She’d assessed the bruising on her side and back, asked questions about the type of pain and told her what she should do to aid their healing.

“It won’t be pleasant, cracked ribs are awful when new, nor’ll it be quick but rest and you’ll heal well enough. Keep that sling on at least 3 weeks an’ don’t use that arm, that shoulder’s already strained and it’ll be a damn sight worse if you push it. Be glad there isn’t any real give in your shoulderblade, crack’s better than a full break any day.”

Well, at least she got to remove the sling before Pinocchio arrived. Working moonstone into metal also wasn’t exactly backbreaking work, just finicky. It only left her sore and more tender when she overdid it. He also needed his weapons repaired and maintained, no one else was here to do it. It was the one thing she could do to help and bearing the pain, the days when her head pounded and body ached were worth it.

She had been slowly feeling better, aches and pains less insistent, fewer bad days spent in bed. Then… when he had wrenched her arms above her head something healing had pulled or even torn. It was still hurting now.

Eugenie shakily straightened up and winced, the sharp spike of pain flaring just under her shoulder blade. She could deal with this. Just… Just focus on what needed doing, don’t think about anything else.

She moved over to the sink and gingerly leaned down just enough to rinse out her mouth.

The floorboards creaked somewhere behind her.

She couldn’t help the sudden flinch, the ragged gasp or the way her heart rate skyrocketed in response as she spun around.

“Eugenie?”

A silver head of hair peeked around the edge of the open door, a cautious expression on his face. Sapphire blue eyes blinked as he took in her obvious fright, subdued purple glimmering in their depths. (In this lighting his eyes almost looked a little red, as though from the crying. It wasn’t possible though and she was feeling too terrible to really consider it properly.)

“I did knock, but the door was already open…”

The sudden panic continued to jangle discordantly across her nerves, leaving Eugenie feeling lightheaded and trembling. Her left hand found the edge of the sink, leaning heavily on it while the other rose to clutch the makeshift pin at her breast, heart still hammering wildly.

“Pinocchio… No it’s… it’s fine, I didn’t hear you.”

At least, that’s what she tried to say. She only got part way through his name before her throat closed up, clawing directionless panic erupting to steal her breath. Her shoulder blade continued throbbing as she struggled to get her breathing under control, the room spinning sickeningly and warping at the edges. Her chest felt tight, constricted like she couldn’t take a proper breath. The sink was like ice where it pressed against her back, chills sweeping across her skin and cold sweat prickling down her spine and making her hands clammy.

Her grip on the chill ceramic slipped and her shaky knees gave way, sending her tumbling to the floor.

~~~

Pinocchio lunged across the small space when Eugenie fell, barely stopping her head from smacking the tiles. His heart seemed to lurch in his chest as he crouched on the bathroom floor, holding the girl up as she dragged in short, shallow gasps.

“Eugenie?!”

She didn’t seem to hear him properly, eyes wide but glazed, as if in shock. Wrapping his arms around her back and under her knees he stood, noting how she flinched when his hand pressed against her right side. For someone he knew to normally be strong and full of life, she felt frightfully small and fragile in his arms.

Settling her on the plush, throw blanket covered settee in the adjoining room Pinocchio knelt before it, rubbing her hands as he spoke to her. Her fingers were cold and trembling in his grip. 

“Eugenie it’s okay, you’re safe. I’m right here, you’re safe in your room.”

(He could see the faint shadow of more bruises around her wrists. They were shaped like fingers.)

Eugenie still bore a dazed, distressed look on her face, her breathing too stuttering and rapid. A tear escaped as she screwed her eyes shut, fingers twining through his and clutching at his hands like a lifeline.

Unfolding from his crouch Pinocchio gingerly sat down beside the girl, continuing to murmur reassurances. He freed one hand to stroke the back of his fingers across her cheek, (Spring liked it when he did that, maybe it’d work here?) wiping another tear away with his thumb.

Eugenie seemed to turn into the gesture, before she leaned forward and buried her face in his shoulder, still trembling. Careful to keep his touch very light he wrapped his arms around her, starting to hum one of his records. He shifted back until he could recline against the large sloped arm of the settee, gently drawing the girl with him. Eugenie pulled her legs up onto the settee and slumped further into his hold, hands gripping his waistcoat.

After a couple of minutes her breathing wasn’t quite as ragged, starting to ease out of the panicked gasps. With her face still hidden in his shirt he could feel the harsh puffs of air slowing down, getting deeper as she began to relax.

Deciding it was worth a try to see if it helped her relax further, he dropped his voice and his humming slid seamlessly into a low purr. Eugenie didn’t even seem to notice the low vibrations, though he felt the tension in her shoulders melt away shortly after he started.

A few minutes after that, he realised she’d calmed down so much she had fallen asleep, the weaponsmith a warm sprawl across his chest. At least she wasn’t in that awful state anymore.

Content to wait until she woke, Pinocchio stared down at the crown of her head. This close, the scent of her shampoo or some kind of hair oil curled pleasantly in his nose. A warm, soft feeling he didn’t quite have a name for quietly settled in his chest, happy he could help even in this small way.

~~~

Eugenie woke up feeling wonderfully warm, her face pressed into something firm but soft enough to be comfortable. The faded scent of violet soap and a natural, subtle sweetness filled her nose, hands loosely clutching silky fabric. A low, soothing rumble sent gentle vibrations right through her body, like she was lying on a large, purring cat.

She didn’t want to move, didn’t want to wake up. Nothing hurt and she felt safe, relaxed and warm and bundled in blankets. Everything was pleasantly numb, all cosy and floaty and distant.

Her pillow rose and fell gently, a soft tickle of air brushing the top of her head in sync with the soothing vibrations. A small voice in the back of her mind whispered that pillows don’t normally breathe but she ignored it, too sleepy and safe to care. She drifted back to sleep, nose buried in silky cloth.

Coming to the second time was easier. She was still just as warm, just as comfy, but the purring had stopped. Eugenie muzzily thought Spring must have left, not really remembering that it had been her pillow to make that sound.

One of the spots of warmth resting on her back lifted away, prompting a sleepy mumble of complaint. A hand settled lightly on her head and stroked her hair like she was a cat, waking her up a little more.

“Eugenie… are you awake?”

The voice was a soft murmur coming from just above her head, yet she also felt it through the surface she was lying on.

That thought took a moment to sink in, but when it did… Oh. She wasn’t lying on a pillow, was she? Dragging open sleep heavy lids she saw a familiar green silk shirt, all wrinkled where it bunched up in her fist. The embroidery of his waistcoat was slightly rough under her left cheek, glasses missing from her face.

She remembered vaguely what happened, up to a point. How she went from panicking in the bathroom to… here was a complete blank though. She didn’t particularly want to remember either. Honestly a sizeable part of her wanted to stay right here, go back to sleep and pretend…

Lifting her head just enough to turn and look up at him, she was met with a small, cautious smile. His eyes betrayed both happiness and concern though, bright sparks of electric blue and shimmery indigo twinkling softly.

“Hello sleepyhead.”

Ducking her head guiltily to avoid his well meant concern, she released his shirt and took in their positions. Pinocchio was nearly fully reclined on the settee, leaning back against the padded arm with one leg stretched out along the seat cushions, the other bent and braced on the floor. Eugenie meanwhile was lying across his chest, hips and outstretched legs tucked snugly between his side and the back of the settee. The woollen throw was pulled off the back and draped over her for warmth, probably because she hadn’t lit the fireplace that morning.

“How…”

Eugenie grimaced, mouth dry and an unpleasant taste on her tongue.

“How long have I been asleep?”

She rubbed a hand over her eyes, trying to feel more awake. His hand stroked the top of her head again and she didn’t have it in her to be annoyed.

“Hmm, I think it’s been about three hours?”

After a long moment of stillness Eugenie groaned and let her forehead fall back onto his chest.

“I said I was only going to get that stupid balm! How do I explain this?”

“If anything, just tell Venigni you slipped and fell. It’s the truth.”

Her head lifted to stare at him in surprise. He read the startled look on her face and frowned.

“You don’t remember?”

Eugenie dropped her eyes and stared hard at the embroidery of his waistcoat.

“Um… no.”

His other hand resting on the small of her back was blissfully warm and she focused on that, unable to face his worry.

“I didn’t think you hit your head but you were quite… distressed afterwards, dazed. Are you feeling okay, does anything hurt?”

For the second part, she could right at this moment truthfully say no. Right now none of it was even aching, a sadly foreign sensation for the past two months. For the first…

“I’m fine, I should get up.”

She didn’t move though, eyelids heavy with the desire to sleep, to blot it all out for just a little longer. Please.

A finger under her chin guided her head up, hazy brown meeting solemn blue. Pinocchio’s voice was soft and with a mournful edge to it.

“You’re not alright, are you Eugenie?”

Despite some small part wanting to protest, she found herself wordlessly shaking her head. Moisture prickled at the corner of her eyes as his hand withdrew, settling on the back of her head when she pressed her face back into his waistcoat.

“I don’t know what he did but if it helps… That puppet hand stalker is dead, the whole black rabbit brotherhood is dead. He can’t do anything anymore.”

If Pinocchio noticed the growing wet patch seeping through his clothes he said nothing, just stroked her hair.

She didn’t see the way his eyes flashed livid gold as, for a brief, uncharacteristic moment he wished he’d killed that stalker more slowly. Getting his throat ripped out by pandemonium's claws was too quick a death.

~~~

The arnica balm had a strong herbal, almost minty smell that wafted behind her as she walked downstairs. Pinocchio followed closely behind, keeping a concerned eye on her as much as he didn’t want to hover. He needed to talk to Belle, get some understanding of what really happened so he had a better idea of how to help…

Passing by the stargazer he paused, watching the fluttering shapes. He’d never seen the fragmented butterflies quite so clearly before.

“Pinocchio?”

Eugenie had stopped and was looking back at him curiously.

“I’m coming, I was just looking at the butterflies.”

She frowned and stepped closer, eyes flicking briefly down to the floor by his feet before refocusing on his face.

“Butterflies? Where are you seeing butterflies?”

Hmm, maybe she couldn’t see them…

“Right here, all the stargazers have them. They’re ergo fragments, it’s the shape they take.”

So saying he reached out and scooped one of the pieces out of the air, pulling it away from the stargazer’s magnetic presence with a simple twist of will Sophia taught him. It had no real physical form but it did tickle slightly where it ‘sat’ on his fingers.

Eugenie squinted at his hand in confusion, adjusting her glasses before looking back at him.

“I… don’t see anything.”

Pinocchio felt oddly disappointed that she couldn’t see the glassy, light filled wings. For a brief moment there was an urge to do… something to let her see them, yet he didn’t know what that something was.

He released the fragment and stepped away, shaking his head.

“Ah it’s fine, it took me a while to see them. Shall we fetch Gemini?”

He was lying of course, but Eugenie didn’t know that. She hesitated a moment, looking back at the stargazer before following.

(She never quite noticed the faint shadows of butterflies dancing on the floor. She did however see the distortion of another shadow, edges all soft and strangely layered. He moved away too soon, before she could make sense of it though.)

Collecting Gemini’s box and broken lamp, the two of them headed back to the kitchen as there was no sign of Venigni in the lobby. On the way, Pinocchio silently noted the careful way the weaponsmith was holding herself, right arm tucked in against her ribs.

They found both inventor and butler once more in the kitchen, the latter busy stirring a pot on the stove. Venigni was busy sketching something out on crisp white paper at the table, a neat pile of pencil shavings pushed to one side.

“Ah Miss Eugenie, young Master Pinocchio perfect timing. Lunch is almost ready to be served.”

Pulccinella was the first to notice them, his words prompting Venigni to look up and spring from his seat.

“My friends! Come, come sit and tell me what you think of this.”

The man waited until they were seated to brandish his sketch of a new Legion gauntlet, diving into the specifics with gusto. Not once did he bring up the question of where they’d been for over 3 hours, just a quick assessing flick of dark eyes between the two while Eugenie was distracted. Venigni really was much more observant than anyone would assume at first glance.

While inventor and weaponsmith goodnaturedly argued over the merits of different materials Pinocchio flipped open Gemini’s temporary home, the little wooden box lined with blue velvet on the inside. This was his first chance to actually see Gemini outside the lamp.

A pair of softly luminous glass orbs stared up at him, the diffuse blue glow difficult to see in the bright sunlight. The little stocky body bore the signature dull gold colour of brass, some minor spots of tarnish lending a green patina to the carapace. He’s tiny, barely the length of his thumb and one long whippy antenna was clearly missing. The other was up and waving in Pinocchio’s direction.

The ‘scrap’ ergo fragment was lying behind Gemini, pitifully small and dull. It was probably no bigger than the cricket’s own ergo ‘heart’ but the condition was visibly poor even in the box. Pinocchio scooped both cricket and crystal up, careful to not let Gemini tip over. The delicate jointed insect claws gripped at the skin of his hand as he felt the two tiny ergo sources.

Pinocchio didn’t know if it was a common ability among puppets to sense ergo but he knew Gemini had a much broader range than him. He could only sense ergo when he was practically touching the source. Crystals (and thus puppets) were easy to get a feel for, unlike humans that had a nearly intangible essence. He had to know them and be trusted by them, (though having physical contact also helped) to feel more than the faintest sensation. The only time this didn’t apply was when the human was almost dead. Then and only then could he fully grasp their ergo, whether he meant to take it or not.

(The only normal, unaltered humans he’d deliberately taken the ergo from had been the remaining Black Rabbit brotherhood and Parrot, the fake Alidoro. They were the only ones he’d hated enough to do such a thing to, to end in such a permanent fashion.)

To his senses, Gemini was a bright little flame with all the vigour and energy of a larger puppet. In contrast, the fragment might as well be a smouldering candlewick for all the energy it held. Yet… it felt incredibly, almost disturbingly familiar. Before he could think more on it Venigni was speaking to him, breaking his train of thought.

“Compagno what do you think? The easiest to convert would be the puppet string or the aegis. Flamberge and fulminis would need some redesigning while…”

Ah, he knew where this was going.

“Puppet string first? It’s more versatile considering the state of Krat right now. It’ll let me get across the fissures more easily.”

That got him three puzzled looks, Pulccinella even turning from the stove to stare.

“Oh, you haven’t seen what caused the earthquake. Kroud has been growing under Krat, for centuries apparently, and with so much ergo released it grew so quickly it broke through. There are spires of Kroud tearing the ground apart all around the train station. Buildings have collapsed and many streets are impassable.”

Both humans bore looks of shock and confusion, Pulccinella uttering a small “Oh my…” in the background. Eugenie was the first to speak, genuine puzzlement in her voice.

“What is Kroud? I’ve never heard of it before.”

Venigni chimed in before Pinocchio could answer.

“Kroud is a strange mineral formation found deep below Krat. It isn’t used for anything as it interferes with most ergo powered machinery. I tinkered with the substance a few years ago, to no real result sadly. It does indeed have a curious ability to ‘grow’ upon exposure to ergo, but to rupture the very ground enough to collapse whole buildings? How was it exposed to so much ergo?”

It struck Pinocchio then that Venigni genuinely didn’t know the true origin of ergo, or he wouldn’t be asking that. His heart sank as he realised he needed to tell him, to tell them both the truth.

“Venigni, what do you think ergo is, where it comes from?”

The man immediately picked up on his cautious tone and frowned, twiddling the pencil in his fingers.

“Ergo is the only currently known apeiroelectric substance, that is it generates a large, constant electrical current when stimulated with a simple spark. Its natural form is that of a crystal and while small subterranean ergo deposits can be found in many places across the globe, Krat is the only place it is found in such abundance… I get the feeling that’s not what you meant though, is it?”

Pinocchio grimaced slightly and sighed, shaking his head.

“No it wasn’t. That’s not to say you’re wrong , just… don’t know all the details. I spoke with Simon and found a lot of documents on the island that paint a much… clearer picture of ergo. It’s a lot more than you think it is.”

Eugenie spoke up before he could continue, a look of honest curiosity on her face.

“Who is Simon, is he an alchemist?”

“I’m talking about Simon Manus, the current… well, currently dead head of the alchemists of Krat. He turned himself into a monstrosity before he died but I spoke to him before that.”

He chose his next words very carefully.

“I don’t know what exactly causes petrification disease, whether it’s some form of ergo overexposure, kroud contamination or something else entirely; the alchemist's notes didn’t seem sure either. Cause aside, when a human contracts the petrification disease, an ergo crystal starts to form inside them. That crystal only finishes forming when they die, which is when the alchemists can harvest it.”

Both humans looked uneasy already and he hadn’t reached the worst part yet.

“If you take that crystal, put it in a puppet with a replica of that person’s face and expose it to people and places that person knew… it stands a very good chance of awakening an ego. That ego just might recall memories… of when it was alive, when it was human. Ergo crystals contain everything that makes you human. Memories, emotions, sensations… it’s the essence of the person it came from.”

Pinocchio reached into his bag and took out a thick wad of rolled up paper, a document he’d found on the isle.

“This is a report on the first puppet with an awakened ego the alchemists found. She was a custom maid puppet with the name Camille. The alchemists interrogated her then took her apart... She belonged to Geppetto. It’s all in there.”

Venigni, who had already been pale, turned positively ghostly on mention of the name Camille. He practically snatched the report from Pinocchio and dived in, speeding through the contents.

Eugenie swallowed roughly, hands pressed to her mouth.

“So ergo… has the mind and memories of people who died? How could anyone who knows that… Is the ergo somehow making a record, a copy…?”

She made a small distressed sound behind her clasped hands.

“It’s... not really a copy, at least I don't think so. I haven’t mentioned ergo’s other form. Ergo exists in one of 3 states, solid, liquid and a third form, its base or natural state. Ergo isn’t something that infects you, it’s… The posters weren’t far off when they said ‘ergo is life’. Everyone has it, sick or healthy. You, Venigni, Belle, all of the survivors I’ve met have it.”

Eugenie looked distinctly pale and seemed to be plucking up the courage to ask something.

“How do you know? That we have it I mean? Can you see it, is it like what you tried to show me at the stargazer?”

Pinocchio shook his head with a tiny, mirthless smile.

“A little while ago I encountered an… escaped experiment of the alchemists who had the ability to, among other things, ‘hear’ the voices within ergo. She taught me how to sense it. Gemini is much better at it than I am, he could probably find you at opposite ends of the hotel.”

The little cricket who had been listening quietly on his palm gave an affirmative chirp, head bobbing as he looked at the weaponsmith.

“It’s… not really describable in a single way, like a sound or a smell, it’s more than that. It’s very hard to put into words.”

How could he even begin to explain the complex, multilayered sensation that was a living human ergo? Thankfully Eugenie didn’t press for details, seemingly deep in thought as she stared at Gemini. Biting her lip, she asked one of the questions he had been quietly dreading, if only because he knew where it could lead.

“What happens to crystal ergo when it’s distilled into liquid? Is it still…?”

Pinocchio answered very carefully, weighing every word before he spoke. Please don’t let this go to where he thought it would…

“When ergo crystals are melted and distilled, any trace of the person they… came from vanishes. No memories, no capacity for ego. The alchemists had a way to recrystallize the liquid but it didn’t undo the loss. They did that quite often in the last couple of years apparently, melting and recrystallizing ‘scrap’ ergo into larger chunks to resell. I’ve found puppets with ‘blank’ ergo like that.”

Venigni was still furiously scrutinising the report, only the odd glance showing he was somewhat listening.

“That explains some things, I kept getting complaints on the ergo quality from the factory.”

The man’s muttered comment made Eugenie look up for a brief moment, before her eyes slid back down to Gemini.

“Do… do many puppets… nevermind.”

She cut off her question with a shake of her head and a guilty flicker of eyes. She had clearly been working up to the one question Pinocchio was dreading the most, but something had stopped her. She looked conflicted and other than that quick glance wouldn’t meet his eyes.

Slowly, unwillingly, words crawled to the tip of his tongue and he started to open his mouth.

“ Cazzo! ”

Pinocchio and Eugenie jumped at the sudden exclamation from the inventor as he leapt from his seat, pacing back and forth angrily as he stared down at the report.

“Lui sapeva tutto questo tempo…”

The furious muttering in Italian petered out as Venigni pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closed and just breathing deeply. Slowly the man retook his seat, dropping the sheaf of paper before he rubbed both hands down his face.

“My apologies for my outburst, Miss Eugenie. Pinocchio, did you know the significance of the puppet in this report?”

Antonia had mentioned the name Camille in more than one story about Geppetto and, indulging Pinocchio’s curiosity, had told him about her.

“I think so. Her ergo, it came from Geppetto’s wife, didn’t it?”

Venigni smiled grimly and nodded, melancholy stealing into his expression.

“I’m all but sure of it. I knew her as a child, my parents worked closely with Giuseppe and Camille. She caught the petrification disease and died three months after… well, that doesn’t matter now.”

The inventor clenched his hands, leather gloves creaking as anger replaced the melancholy and he glared down at the report.

“This means he knew. For the past 20 years Geppetto knew the truth of ergo, of where it came from and never said a word. I… I thought of him as a friend, as a mentor when I was just starting out! Now I see he had no care for others, even back then.”

Venigni looked up as his expression dropped with sadness, an almost desperate gleam in his eyes.

“Pinocchio, please tell us everything that happened on the island, did you find Geppetto?”

“I did… but I don’t know what happened after I blacked out or where he may be now.”

He held up a hand to stall any questions and started to recount most of what had happened, first in the Grand Exhibition then on the island. He left out any mention of Sophia and finding Arlecchino, as Venigni likely wouldn’t want an audience when Pinocchio gave him the little toy.

He told them about the ‘cure’ that turned people into carcasses, the almost hospital-like setup farther into the Exhibition and about Victor. He spoke about the mutated experiments, that the alchemists he found were barely human anymore with their sallow grey-blue skin and disproportionate bodies. He told them about finding Geppetto locked in a prison cell, how he refused to answer any questions until Simon was dealt with as ‘it was almost finished’ and afterwards he would tell him everything.

He described Simon’s plan to ‘evolve humanity’ using alchemy and ergo, spoke of his delusions of divinity and the massive ergo collection machine built into the tower. All the death caused by the alchemists and the puppets had ‘fed’ the machine, letting it suck up every ‘freed’ scrap of ergo in the city, even from miles away.

He had to pause at several points to let the two humans gather their thoughts (and judging by their faces encroaching nausea) after some of the worst points. Pulcinella quietly tended the stove in the background, though even his motions hitched at certain points. 

“He discharged that machine on himself, soaked in all that ergo and it twisted him, turned him monstrous and broken even as he raved about being reborn and remaking the world. I didn’t have any choice but to kill him.”

Venigni interrupted with a slightly shaky but bewildered sounding voice, face ashen with the awful nature of the story Pinocchio was telling.

“How? How could he survive so much ergo? In large quantities it’s lethal, any technician working longterm on ergo insertion needs a mask, overalls and coated gloves to avoid too much exposure.”

Pinocchio gently placed Gemini and the scrap ergo back in the box then rubbed his fingers over the knuckles of his left hand nervously. Now comes the difficult bit…

“There was an… item, a relic the alchemists revered. Simon used it somehow alongside his machine. There were no notes or documents about its origin, just that it was… powerful.”

He continued before anyone could say anything.

“When he died his body disintegrated into ergo, leaving that relic behind. I picked it up, just as his machine took all that released ergo and fired it right back down. I barely remember throwing the lamp away to try and keep Gemini safe.”

Eugenie and Venigni both looked utterly horrified, probably aware enough of what an overload like that would do to a puppet. Pinocchio didn’t tell them any of the details, how he remembered feeling his voicebox burst or the pain as his internals felt like they were melting. He didn’t say any of that, but he couldn’t stop the small, flinching shudder. Pulcinella had been watching and turned completely away from the stove, promptly appearing at his side with a glass of water. He nodded his thanks, took a sip and forced himself to continue.

“I don’t know how long it took to wake up, but when I did I was blind. I couldn’t think straight, couldn’t stand without falling to start with. I was still on top of the tower, so I found Gemini and… felt my way down.”

His right hand was gripping tightly around his left as he stared hard at the table.

“Did I ever tell you about Giangio, the pharmacist who made the cure for Antonia? Well apparently he was an alchemist as well. He was there in the tower when I got inside, I recognised his voice. I don’t remember what he said to me clearly, but he made me take something that knocked me out again. Next time I woke up I was here.”

Eugenie had already shuffled over to sit beside him, one hand tentatively coming to rest on his arm.

“I don’t know if Geppetto is still there on the island or not, I’m sorry.”

Venigni meanwhile had looked at the way he was holding his left wrist, met his eyes… and didn’t ask a single question about the relic or anything else.

“Oh Pino, you have nothing to be sorry about. You should never have had to go through all that. No one should have to see or experience such horrible things, least of all you.”

He reached across the table and put his own hand on Pinocchio’s arm, copying Eugenie.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t do more to lift that burden, to see past Geppetto’s lies. Take the time right now to rest, that old man can wait.”

“But…”

“No buts, you’ve worked yourself to the bone for this city, you’re more than entitled to relax for once.”

Venigni patted his arm then pulled back, unearthing a handkerchief to clean his glasses.

“I was made to…”

Eugenie chimed in this time and cut him off with a watery smile, easing her fingers under his tight grip to hold his hand.

“I think we can all agree you’re a lot more than what you were made to be, and have been for a long time.”

Chapter Text

That stupid puppet! He had been so close to succeeding, to finally reclaiming his son. After everything he sacrificed, years of labour and planning, exhaustive work to set the stage and that damn puppet falls at the last hurdle!

For the briefest moment he had thought it all gone to waste, on seeing the shattered pieces of Carlo’s heart. Yet the mass of ergo that had once been its vessel was not dissipating outwards but shrinking inwards. That meant a core and a core meant a chance not all was lost. He knew he’d have to wait out whatever process was happening to the puppet, he had no intention of dying to ergo overexposure at this point, not when he was so close to success.

He would just have to be patient. He’d extracted Carlo from blended ergo before, when the upgraded body proved too much for his rebellious child. He’d memorised his son’s ergo signature, he could extract him from whatever warped shape the Arm twisted his puppet into. Oh he had no doubt this was the Arm’s doing, it was remarkably capricious for a supposedly ‘sacred’ (not to mention mindless) artefact.

The puppet was a marvel of engineering; arguably a magnum opus to any other Workshop craftsman who could only dream of creating something half as intricate. The quartz integrated circuitry in its brain alone was revolutionary; never mind the symbiosis he achieved between the biological components and the mechanical, liquid ergo acting as preserver and nutrition for the painstakingly grafted neural tissue throughout the body. This is what had allowed for the human comparable proprioception (and thus the smooth, natural looking movement) the puppet displayed, rather than the slower, stilted movements of standard puppets. Perception of pain was another useful feature of the grafted nervous system, though it had taken months of specialised ‘stem cell’ treatments injected into the liquid ergo bathing the tissue to repair the initial damage caused during grafting.

(The biological scientific advances available outwith Krat were astounding, even if their puppetry technology was infantile in comparison. Perhaps that spoke more of his own considerable skill in the mechanical arts however. Still, no cure for the Petrification Disease existed even there, the condition a much rarer yet still highly feared ailment to most of the world. The embargo imposed across the entire island nation by its distant neighbours was proof of that. A simple enough thing to circumvent, with the right business connections.)

The storage of ‘older’ ergo had been of paramount importance as well, to allow for the regular intake of new ergo. To this end he had designed two entirely new mechanical ‘organs’, designed to act similarly to the stomach and liver. The first was a relatively simple receptacle, a stretchy ‘bag’ of artificial muscle fibres coated with a special sealant. Specialised ergo solvent was then cycled through integrated ducts in the ‘bag’ from a small inbuilt reservoir. This system allowed for the ingestion of liquid or solid ergo, that could then be dissolved and filtered into the circulatory system, leaving any solvent to be recycled. Working in tandem with this was the ‘liver’, extracting and concentrating older ergo into a semisolid state. It could then be transported and stored in specially segregated synthetic tissue all around the body, ready for use as ‘fuel’ for the Arm once the time came to resurrect Geppetto’s son.

That wasn’t even touching on the unique metal composite skeleton with a higher fracture resistance and better lbs for lbs weight bearing capacity than steel.

Despite all these groundbreaking advances, the puppet was still disposable, a single (if integral) step on the long road to completing Geppetto’s true Magnum Opus. Despite all his skill, that technological marvel of a puppet still needed an ability that he couldn’t program or build, as much as it galled him to admit. That was why he’d needed the Arm. It had taken time to work out the best operating conditions for the relic and the sacrifice to provide the ergo it needed. Thankfully Amélie’s decades of stalker experience had not been wasted; her skill with seemingly every weapon imaginable had manifested in the puppet's fighting prowess.

Suitably appeased, the Arm had granted his ‘wish’ and enabled the puppet vessel to strengthen Carlo’s heart with the ergo it consumed, to repair the damage it had suffered when Geppetto had been forced to extract Carlo’s ergo from his son's upgraded body. That the ‘wish’ further enhanced the realism of the puppet was just a minor issue. It was mostly surface level alterations like skin and hair texture and blemishes, though slight internal changes had also been noted. That it also rid the puppet of the honey tinted caramel brown eyes (Camille’s eyes) he’d so painstakingly recreated from memory, in favour of luminous blue left a bitter taste in his mouth.

When it continued to change after it woke and began its task he started to get concerned, as it was something he hadn’t accounted for. After the hair he had paid closer attention to the puppet, demanding a comprehensive checkup. During that first inspection he saw nothing amiss within the puppet, save a slight shine to the internals that could have been leftover fluid from an ergo or oil leak.

The following weeks he saw nothing of the puppet, as it was slowly clearing Venigni Arcade and the maze-like Grand Exhibition building. It only returned to the hotel to repair its weapons or deliver supplies it scavenged and he never caught it in person to order an inspection. After finally getting through Exhibition and heading to the swamp to look for Venigni’s ‘golden ergo’, he finally caught it to order a checkup when the puppet returned unexpectedly. Apparently it had managed to break not only its weapon but its legion arm as well, courtesy of fighting not one but two of Venigni’s damned demolition puppets at once. ‘Puppet of the Future’ his left foot, the stupid things were wrecking balls on legs. There was nothing sophisticated about them, much like that particular legion arm.

(It was only to be expected that inferior work failed under pressure, that junior technician was barely out of apprenticeship. The gaudy blue and yellow paint job on the arm she built only made the shoddy workmanship more obvious. She should just stick to weapon repair, it was the only area the silly girl had passable talent in.)

Implanting the pieces of quartz it had retrieved remained a straightforward procedure, the minor chest plate for direct access to the P-organ opening easily enough. The major chest plate however, for access to the air pump and important ergo flow tubing was difficult to prise open. The faux skin tore and ‘bled’ ergo, the puppet actually flinching even though the chair had magnetic restraints. Inside was only really showing one point of concern, the air pump less a pneumatic box with attached cylindrical bellows and more… organic in nature, soft with a moist veiny texture, expanding and contracting like lungs with every breath. Some of the tubing looked suspiciously slippery and soft as well, though nothing encroached on Carlo’s heart.

The abdominal plate had been even more difficult to open, actually requiring a scalpel and a sharp order for the puppet to stop trying to pull away. Inside was even worse, transparent membranes laced with brilliant ergo veins creeping over and around everything. At the time he’d wanted to tear out the vile mess befouling the puppet, yet knew he couldn’t. It would have taken over a day just to fully clean out, never mind replacing everything too compromised by the growth. Too much time would have been wasted at this late stage in the plan, so he’d just grimaced and shut the hatch.

He let the puppet leave, but not before he’d donned the mask of the distant but caring father and apologised for his terse attitude. The puppet was holding its shirt to the oozing cuts, too anxious to hear the insincerity in his voice. Its desire to be anywhere but Geppetto’s office was all too obvious.

Its behaviour reminded him of the weak but rebellious child Carlo had once been, too shortsighted to see the importance of his father’s work. It was disappointing to see it so emotional, so similar to Carlo at his worst. He knew it wasted time socialising with the people in the hotel. As irritating as it was, he couldn’t deny the way his heart hurt that time he saw Antonia teaching it scales on the piano. She’d been smiling even through the disfiguring marks of petrification and the puppet… Its face had been a picture perfect copy of Carlo’s, right down to the way one eyebrow slanted slightly more than the other when he frowned, completely focused on what he was being taught.

He hadn’t made it able to emote like that.

If he couldn’t quite gather the conviction to tell it to stop the frivolous socialising after that, no one else knew.

…

Well, that was in the past. What mattered now was taking back Carlo’s ergo. He’d missed the puppet’s reawakening, too busy dispatching any remaining alchemists and their abominations he found while locating and destroying any intact stargazers. All he’d found on returning to the top of the tower was fraying ergo filaments and the drying remains of its… cocoon. Whether it was cognisant enough to have found the marina and piloted one of the submersibles, or it had been retrieved by someone else did not matter. An ergo signature that large was trackable, if it hadn’t just gone to the hotel like an animal returning to where it thinks itself safe.

~~~

In the depths of Venigni’s factory, hidden in a dead end corner of the maze-like corridors and behind an old, rusted looking padlocked door was Geppetto’s most used ‘hidden’ workshop.

He had access to everything here, able to smelt and create any custom part he desired with plentiful raw materials. He also had direct line access to the hotel security system, something he had installed when the system was first created.

Venigni really was far too trusting, though it certainly worked in Geppetto’s favour. The soft hearted boy didn’t even know there was an entire sub-basement level to his factory, equipped with generators, a smelter and all the other tools necessary to make the most complex and dangerous puppets imaginable.

Though the rest of the world had embraced the idea of the camera decades ago, the little island nation of Sterrenval was only just beginning to explore the concept as more than a novelty. Much of the newfound wealth created by the boom in puppet tech had barely begun to trickle outside of Krat, the new capital a good 30 or more years ahead technologically than the rest of the island.

While the common citizens of Krat were ignorant of the outside technology already present in the city, a number of the most prominent establishments had hidden forms of electronic monitoring set up. In the hotel the exterior, corridors and lobby had concealed cameras linked to the security system. It had been a simple affair to install a new camera in the puppet’s room while it was out. Just replace the glass finial on the standing lamp in the corner with one containing the camera, thread the wires through and dismantle the socket to connect it to the coaxial cable running through the wall. There was no audio but all Geppetto needed was visual confirmation of the puppet’s presence.

The cathode ray monitor was a boxy thing, its curved glass screen lit up as it showed footage of the interior of the hotel. Sure enough, there was the puppet apparently talking to the little chit of a technician. It looked surprisingly unchanged through the monitor, though it was easy to see the lack of legion arm. Hmm, he’d have to proceed carefully if the relic was being this… tame with its alterations. Unless…

Turning away from the monitor, Geppetto crossed the room to the refrigeration unit. Opening the door he selected one of the vials inside and scrutinised the label. Simon’s chicken scratch handwriting was offensive to the eye but still legible… barely. Perhaps this would be a more effective method of subduing the puppet, if the Arm had done what he suspected.

Replacing the vial and closing the door, he pivoted and strode to the heap of metal lying on an oversized, reinforced gurney. Turning on the spotlight above the badly damaged puppet he considered how best to make the required alterations. In a box on the desk beside the CRT monitor, the ergo of the puppet on the gurney glowed angrily.

Geppetto’s troublesome puppet had yet to realise it was missing from his room.

Chapter Text

“I was made to…”

Eugenie chimed in this time and cut him off with a watery smile, easing her fingers under his tight grip to hold his hand.

“I think we can all agree you’re a lot more than what you were made to be, and have been for a long time.”

~~~

Back in the privacy of his suite, Pinocchio leaned back against the locked door with a barely stifled groan. It had taken too long to excuse himself from the kitchen, the two humans seemingly determined to keep him part of their discussions. Thankfully no uncomfortable questions had been asked, indeed anything about ergo or Geppetto had been completely avoided.

Straightening up he moved to the coffee table, swiping the half filled bottle from earlier and taking several large swallows. The food in the kitchen had smelled so tempting and really made him hungry, but he didn’t want to run the risk of getting sick. One particularly unpleasant time in the Grand Exhibition sprang to mind, when he’d been thrown headfirst into one of the alchemist’s noxious tanks. He’d only swallowed (and probably inhaled) a little of it but he’d been left retching for a good 30 minutes afterwards. Really not something he wanted to repeat, he’d felt awful for hours after that. Though… maybe he should test it at some point? He can drink plain water, maybe a sip of tea or broth would be least risky…

Right now though, he needed to distil more concentrated ergo to refill those pulse cells, as well as the normal concentration for drinking.

Finishing the bottle he filled it with cold water from the bathroom sink and crossed to the still setup in the corner of the sitting room. Eugenie probably hadn’t noticed it earlier, given it was against the same wall as the outer suite door and tucked into the leftmost corner. Pinocchio pulled off the dust sheet and checked the knee high copper alembic and connected thumpers, the two smaller pots for concentrating the liquid ergo before it reached the condenser. They could be easily disconnected for distilling normal liquid ergo. The electric heating plate had its power source disconnected for safety, so he took a moment to reinsert the small ergo crystal that powered it.

Pouring most of the water into the main body of the alembic, Pinocchio crossed to the weapon covered sideboard and took two large squat bottles from the end cupboard, one of which was empty. Returning to the copper still he set down the bottle and opened the 2 ft by 1 ft metal banded chest that sat beside it. The glow from the heaping mound of ergo crystals within illuminated his face, the brass lining of the chest adding a slight yellow reflection to the normally cool blue light.

Apparently in ergo containment chests like this the lining was there to dampen the energy the crystals gave off, as in high concentrations it could make humans sick. He’d asked Sophia once why that was and she had told him even the most beneficial substances could be poisons in high enough doses. Ergo when crystallised, radiated higher amounts of energy than it did in its natural state, disrupting the balance of innate ergo within the human body. Short term or low level exposure wasn’t really harmful, the body able to regulate those brief increases.

It was exposure to very high amounts or moderate ones over periods of many months or years that caused serious issues. The sheer amount of puppets in Krat would actually be at risk of causing illness if it wasn’t for the insulating effect of the copper and brass pipes and plating in their bodies. ‘Ergo illness’ as far as anyone could tell was not linked to petrification disease and much less widely known, primarily due to how rare it was to develop and die from now. The rules on ergo exposure had been strict and tightly enforced before the frenzy, in part due to the uncertainty on what exactly caused petrification disease.

After he’d learned about it, Pinocchio had been adamant about keeping all his collected ergo crystals in insulated containers. He’d even asked Geppetto if his own body was insulated enough for the large amount of ergo he contained. The old man had merely given him a disappointed look and asked if he truly doubted his skills. He took that as a yes.

Back to the task at hand, Pinocchio ran his fingers lightly over the uppermost crystals, listening to them clink against one another. He didn’t like needing them in the first place knowing what they were, but at least these pieces were either blank or damaged. Most of the ergo crystals he took from puppets or found within carcasses were chipped or fractured, probably by the fight beforehand. The few intact pieces he found he kept carefully separate in their own small lockbox in his bedroom… Except for one. That crystal had its own little box, hidden away in a drawer in the sideboard that he never opened. He couldn’t get rid of that ergo, nor could he stop feeling guilt every time he saw it.

Selecting several larger chunks and a handful of smaller fragments he put them into the alembic, carefully measuring out a dose of ergo solvent from the almost empty bottle. Hmm, he’d need to fetch more of that. He added the dose and immediately the reaction started, though there was only a high, faint whistling sound to betray it.

Sealing up the alembic he turned on the heating plate and closed up the chest, fitting the empty bottle into place to collect the liquid ergo and then returning the bottle of solvent back to the sideboard. Now it was just a waiting game.

Studying the weapons littering the long piece of furniture and floor around it, he pondered which one he should use while the two dragon sword was with Eugenie. Well there was only one real answer to that, considering how many carcasses now wandered Krat. His gaze drifted over to a long curved blade, the ornate black and gold handle gleaming invitingly. Extracting it from the other weapons he tested its weight, the handle and guard just large enough to fit both hands yet still light enough to wield one handed.

This blade, with the little leaping fish on the pommel was one he’d used quite a bit after he found it on Rosa Isabelle street. While it wasn’t the best blade to deal with puppets, it carved through carcasses with ease and could deal with multiple enemies at once. The long radically curved damascus steel blade and quick flowing movements the sword demanded were perfect for slicing through the alchemical monsters. The ornate wooden scabbard it originally had sadly didn’t survive the acidic carcass fluids it had been exposed to in the arcade. Eugenie had cobbled together a plain wood and leather replacement, but Pinocchio had usually just carried it unsheathed and propped on one shoulder.

Unsheathing it he admired the rippling silvery grey damascus pattern, the moonstone treatments Eugenie gave it lending a pearly blue sheen in the light. Yes, this would do very nicely until the hwando was in working shape again.

It had only been a couple of weeks since he last used it, though it felt much longer. After the arcade (which was a maze of intersecting underground hallways) he’d swapped to other weapons to deal with the puppet and alchemist infested Grand Exhibition building. Pair it with a short blade for really close quarters fights and he’d be set if he had to go out.

Grabbing a large hunting style knife with a blue wrapped hilt he set them both beside the cluttered coffee table. They needed oiling but he wasn’t going to pile more work on Eugenie, not for something as simple as this. Rummaging around until he found the mineral oil and cleaning cloth, he sat down and got to work rubbing it into the blades, one ear on the alembic gently hissing and bubbling in the background.

He really should check Geppetto’s office for more solvent, he usually had a few bottles… Perhaps after the distillation was done, he couldn’t leave it unattended after all.

~~~

“Ah yes, this should be a fairly easy fix. The wire here has snapped and this connector is dislocated. None of the components are actually broken, thankfully.”

Venigni glanced up at the young weaponsmith, the inventor’s goggles with their multiple size swivel lenses looking so out of place on the normally well groomed man that it almost made her laugh. Gemini lay upside down in the tiny clamp, abdominal plating removed to show the amazingly small internal mechanisms. He’d been, not turned off as you couldn’t do that once a puppet had been activated, but his processes had been suspended . It slowed down everything to such a degree that repairs and internal inspections could be done safely, with little risk of the puppet moving or reacting to outside stimulus. It was the standard and only way such procedures were done. It had been likened to anaesthetic for human surgeries, a necessity even though puppets had no pain receptors.

Eugenie could see the glow showing through the tiny fragile tubes visible in the cricket’s body. She wrestled with herself for a long moment while Venigni carefully manipulated a barely visible wire into place with extra fine needlepoint pliers. This was probably the best chance she’d get to ask the question, that horrible twisty feeling not letting the matter lie. As clearly uncomfortable as Pinocchio had been she couldn’t bear to finish asking, even though it felt like something she needed to know.

“Mr Venigni, I saw Gemini get a… an infusion of new ergo earlier. Is it… common for puppets to need more like that?”

The man finished securing the minute piece of copper into place before he pushed up his goggles and looked at her with a quizzical expression.

“Oh for very small puppets like the Monad crickets it’s standard. Their size makes it all but impossible to contain a fully sealed system, so they require small but regular amounts of liquid ergo to maintain function.”

A more assessing expression crossed his face.

“If this is in regards to anything… larger… it is very irregular to find a system like that in human sized puppets. Nor is it perhaps, something to speculate about when you can just ask him.”

Her shoulders hunched, a guilty caste to her face.

“I just… can’t get it out of my head, I tried but it won’t go away. If ergo is really… it nearly makes me sick to think about. I didn’t even realise Pinocchio was a puppet when he first came to the hotel. He’s so human yet if he needs… It… it would just be so awful…”

Her voice dropped right down to a miserable whisper.

“I know he collected ergo, he always insisted on leaving pieces as payment whenever he left a weapon with me, even when I said he didn't need to. He knew the trader who dropped past the hotel preferred ergo chips to florins. I’ve seen him come in with bags full of crystals, but I’ve never seen him leave with any. He just takes them upstairs and they seem to vanish. I feel horrible for even thinking it but…”

Her expression screamed how conflicted and upset she was. Venigni sighed and resettled the goggles over his eyes, flicking down another magnifying lens.

“I know little to nothing about our friend’s construction, Geppetto was adamant I only provide repairs for the legion arms. I can only guess as to how that man made him as lifelike as he first appeared. As to when he began changing, nothing I know can account for any of it, let alone what has happened now. The composition of our nigh miraculous friend is a complete mystery, especially now and will likely remain as such.”

The needle nose pliers were back in Gemini’s body, carefully manipulating something. His voice dropped into something a little gentler.

“This new knowledge of ergo is… very upsetting, I agree. Under the circumstances, your mind taking the information you have to the logical extreme is understandable. It’s the curse of having an inquisitive mind, it wanders to places we'd rather it not. Regardless, whether he had or even still has such a system is immaterial. It doesn’t change who he is or what he’s done for us or Krat as a whole. The poor boy needs every bit of support we can give him and we shouldn’t let what might be true affect our thoughts. He can’t help how he was made.”

Venigni removed the pliers with a flourish before carefully refitting the cricket’s abdominal plating. Removing Gemini from the clamp he was placed upright on the table, still insensate for the repairs. The inventor picked up a slim device with a needle fine tip, adjusted the amperage and inserted it into the tiny gap in between head and body. A flicker of electric current passed through Gemini’s body and the cricket jerked back to life.

“There we are! Now all that should need fixing is that antenna of yours and the lamp. Take a walk around the table and see if those legs are functioning correctly.”

Gemini stretched his legs before he obligingly did a circuit of the workbench, even doing a few small hops. While that happened Eugenie composed herself, biting her tongue to stop the words that wanted to tumble out. She knew it didn’t change who Pinocchio was, how kind he was.

Intellectually she knew all of that, needing liquid ergo didn’t change anything. Emotionally though was another story. Just the knowledge of ergos true origins was horrifying, she wasn’t even sure she could hold a crystal without feeling genuinely sick. The idea Pinocchio, that sweet, curious and caring (former?) puppet had needed it in any capacity just to function was bad enough. The distinct possibility he’d needed more of it, had a system like Gemini did… She didn’t quite have the words to describe how twisted up inside she felt about that, and she hated feeling that way.

She should be able to rationalise it, should be able to stop her emotions from resembling a gordian knot of anxiety and distress over the possibility. Pinocchio didn’t deserve to be subject to her anxiety like that, he was so empathetic he’d pick up on it right away if he hadn’t already.

This was her problem, her feelings making things difficult. She needed to try and work through this herself, not get caught up in her own messy emotions.

Pushing her glasses up and rubbing her face, she sucked in a deep breath and slowly released it, packing away the turmoil to deal with as best she could later. Standing, she gave a little wan smile at Gemini before looking at the inventor and nodding.

“You’re right Mr Venigni, I just need a little time to set myself straight. I’m going to see if I have any leather strapping to fit your gauntlet idea. I’ll bring Gemini’s lamp over as well, so you can see the damage.”

~~~

The problem with distilling concentrated ergo was that it took up to 3 hours longer than normal and couldn’t be left alone. Pinocchio had now oiled every single weapon in his collection and was busy struggling through a hefty tome on human anatomy, one he’d actually taken from Geppetto’s office nearly a month before. He’d just never got around to looking at it before now, and while it was fascinating it was also very taxing. The author assumed a level of knowledge from the reader that he just didn’t have, and there was only the briefest glossary in the back of the book. The amazingly detailed diagrams helped but much of the terminology still left him hopelessly lost.

Actually, some of the images reminded him rather strongly of papers and chalk diagrams he’d seen in Geppetto’s office. Well, it was probably his lack of anatomical knowledge that made them look similar. The man wouldn’t have any reason to be studying biology, let alone the human ‘nervous system’ as puppets were purely mechanical.

A change in pitch of the noises coming from the alembic alerted him to the distillation finally being complete. Abandoning the book on the coffee table, Pinocchio leapt up and hurried across to shut off the heat plate. The formerly empty bottle was now full of intensely glowing liquid, the faint purple tint and viscosity characteristic of concentrated ergo.

As unpleasant as it was to take, the effects were undeniable, dulling pain and restoring his energy levels in a matter of seconds. The energy boost alone was intense, every sense sharpening and heat rushing through his pipes. He… didn’t actually know what taking some would feel like now, since he'd gone through this strange change. Perhaps that was something he should have thought about five hours ago…

A little annoyed at himself for overlooking that, he disconnected the full bottle from the alembic’s pipes. The smell from the bottle was heady, deceptively pleasant when he knew how sickly it actually tasted. Well, might as well try it and get the experience over with.

Sitting cross legged on the carpet he took a tiny sip, less than half a vial’s worth before corking the bottle and putting it to one side. He’d already been grimacing in preparation for the sickly flavour but a whole minute after he’d taken that sip there was… nothing. It was just sweet, strong but not quite sickly and left a slight warm tingle behind.

To make sure he hadn’t just not taken enough, he took a larger sip and waited. Still it wasn’t as unpleasant as he was expecting, which was a relatively nice surprise. It didn’t seem to give the boost of energy he’d expected either, no bright hot rush of sensation surging through pipes or veins or whatever he had now. Instead it was just this slow bloom of warmth, heat languidly unspooling through his limbs.

It actually felt really nice and he found himself relaxing almost involuntarily. It was so far removed from the effect it had previously that he was completely taken aback.

This would be no good in a fight. This would probably get him killed if he used it anywhere remotely dangerous, which meant he’d likely wasted the past five hours distilling it. The amount of crystals that went into this could have made at least five bottles of regular strength ergo, and been finished in less time. Instead of proper fuel that would last a good ten days… he had an expensive relaxant.

If he didn’t feel positively sleepy right now he’d have groaned and smacked himself in the face for being an idiot. Instead he let himself fall backwards onto the carpet, closing his eyes and sighing loudly. He definitely needed to search Geppetto’s office for more solvent now, much as he didn’t want to.

Rolling smoothly to his feet he picked up the bottle of wasted crystals and considered it for a moment. Might as well put it where he’d actually use it. Walking into his bedroom he put the bottle in the little cupboard of the bedside table, then left his suite and headed along to Geppetto’s office.

Reaching the closed double doors he paused, that odd little tug he’d felt earlier suddenly much stronger. Before, it had been like someone was whispering his name so quietly it was more an impression of being called than a sound. Just now, it was more like someone had taken his hand and was trying to pull him forward, the sensation almost physical and very strange indeed. The insubstantial touch was almost like the gentlest breath of wind, twining through his fingers and pressing insistent puffs of chilly air.

Steeling himself Pinocchio reached out and opened the rightmost door, peering cautiously into the dim space beyond. No fire nor lamp illuminated the interior and it was already dark outside, but the light streaming in the open door was enough to see by. At first glance everything seemed normal, the long coffee table, beige chairs and tool covered double workstation in the far corner. The only thing that showed any sign of being off was Geppetto’s desk, the usually tidy surface covered with papers. The neatly stacked books were also scattered about the floor.

Sadly the chair sat undisturbed, twin globes still humming and crackling with electrical sparks. There were still faintly luminous blue spatters staining the footplate from the last time the chair was used.

He didn’t like thinking about that, the memory of disapproving eyes and sharp unexpected pain made his skin itch disconcertingly. He… probably should have expected a response like that, Geppetto had made clear his dislike of those first few changes. It was why he’d been so carefully avoiding the man in those latter weeks.

Of course the chair was an unwelcome presence even without that last memory, too many hours spent magnetically held in place while tiny quartz chips were painstakingly shaped and fitted into the p-organ. He always left that chair with painful bruises. Even when his skin was less sensitive it still left the area a mottled purple where the magnets had anchored the special steel plates buried in his frame.

He didn’t particularly want to find out if those magnets still worked on him.

Stepping further into the room he noted the chill from the unlit fire, before finally turning and seeing the other thing different in the office.

The portrait of a boy, the child that he now knew to be a young Carlo was still pouting unhappily in its frame. The strange little tree branch growing from the painting was also still there, though the difference was startling. Rather than being a scant few inches long with a single green leaf, the branch was now easily the length of his arm. Multiple leaves grew vigorously from the end, though they weren’t green. No, both bark and foliage glowed a familiar, scintillating gold.

More than a little taken aback by the sight, Pinocchio just stared for a long moment at the Gold Coin tree branch growing from the painting. The glow was dim and soft, hidden behind the open door. That insistent little tug had now completely stopped, along with everything else.

If anyone else had been there they would have felt the odd, unsettling air overtake the room. The golden light reflected eerily in Pinocchio’s suddenly blank eyes as he stepped forward, head tilting slightly.

Slowly he reached out with his left hand, fingers ghosting over the gleaming bark. The branch was warm where his hand closed around it, humming gently beneath his fingertips. A single pull and the branch started to slide smoothly out of the canvas, the paint rippling like water as more of the wood emerged.

With a flourish the last of what was now obviously a 6 feet long staff pulled free of the painting, immature gold coin fruit chiming gently on the end. Reflective gold stared past gilded bark at what hid within, a silent communication. Light flickered like bottled lightning beneath the skin of the left hand, spilling out into the staff.

With a voiceless sigh eyes slid closed…

                  and…

                               Pinocchio…

…came back to himself with a start.

Blinking in confusion he looked around, flexing empty hands. He could have sworn…

Wait, what was he doing again?

Oh yes, the solvent! Skirting around behind the chair he pulled the rolling shelves back and checked in the lower cupboards. Bottles of multiple sizes sat neatly arranged within, the ones he was looking for clustered in the bottom. Pulling out one he closed the cupboard, walked across to the large desk and put it down, reaching over to turn on the desk lamp.

The usually tidy surface was strewn with papers, the typewriter pushed back to make room for the mess. Neatly written… what looked like calculations covered the topmost sheets, a befuddling scrawl of numbers and shorthand notes. There were several notes that seemed to be pure calculations, the mathematics so over his head that he had no hope in following it. A couple of pages mentioned density that might or might not have been talking about ergo? Below that were pages covered in sketches and diagrams, torn edges looking as though they’d been ripped from a book or journal. Some depicted the mechanisms of the legion arm with notations on material or design improvements. Others looked to be diagrams of what may have been his own internals, incomprehensible shorthand and technical jargon filling every inch of paper.

The drawers of the desk were all pulled out and piled empty on the floor, even the one Pinocchio had seen F… Geppetto lock his notebooks in. Picking them up he slotted each one back into place, doing the lockable drawer last. Something blocked that drawer from sliding home when he tried to push it into place, so he felt along the runner slots for any splinters or damage.

About halfway along his fingers hit an obstruction, almost like the top of the drawer space had dropped down. That… didn’t seem right so he knelt and felt around for a moment until something gave under his poking and he heard a click, the entire top panel dropping open. Two thick leather bound journals and a tiny square box slid out of the revealed cavity, one book visibly more worn than the other. A loose sheet of folded paper slipped from between the pages of the worn journal, edges faintly yellow with age.

With a faint sense of trepidation he stood, placing the paper, box and books on the desk. Carefully he unfolded the paper, noting the deep creases and spots of… water damage?

His breath caught for a moment as he beheld the drawing, the portrait on the aged paper.

Lovingly detailed, the woman’s beatific smile showed real happiness even through the pencil sketch. Her hair was tied back in a bun, one loosely curled strand framing the right side of her face. A fine smattering of freckles spread across a slightly upturned nose and high cheekbones, a smudge of what looked like oil from the pencilled in shine streaked across her forehead. Full lips spread wide as she beamed at the artist, eyes crinkling at the corners as they sparkled in whatever light the moment had happened in. A tape measure was draped over her shoulder, a pencil stuck behind one ear. What was visible of her clothes showed it was a Workshop outfit, scarf stained with more dark splotches.

Pinocchio knew who this was, he’d seen his own reflection enough to see the similarity. His throat tightened as he felt like he’d intruded on some private memory. In places the lines were smudged, more long dried watermarks wrinkling the paper.

Folding up the image with utmost care he opened the cover of the worn journal to place it back inside, and stared.

To my darling,

for all those brilliant ideas of yours, so you can stop writing on handkerchiefs.

C

Hardly daring to breathe Pinocchio traced the faded writing with a feather light touch, before hesitantly turning the page. Ideas on puppet parts and other mechanical pieces littered the paper, little sketches for illustration dotting the pages in Geppetto’s handwriting. What was more interesting were the scribbled little annotations squeezed in beside some of the ideas. Sometimes they were praise, others suggestions while a few were simple reminders not to forget to eat or drink something. One was even a question asking if Geppetto wanted ‘Pomodoro’ for dinner tomorrow. Others were seemingly random ramblings about how obtuse the alchemists were to work with.

For all their encyclopaedic knowledge on ergo, their understanding of mechanics is that of a baby with wood blocks! Yet they won’t let me work without disruption. :(

What I’m learning with this commission is fascinating, but it would go so much faster if I wasn’t answering asinine questions every five minutes!

Interspaced between all the ideas and inventions were full page drawings of the same woman in various poses and clothes, date scribbled in the corner. Bent over a desk in the Workshop uniform, her face a mask of concentration; perched on a window seat reading a book in a sensible blouse and ankle length skirt, one hand cradling her lower abdomen.

One in particular was a full image of what could only be the Saintess statue, a small figure dramatically sprawled across the puppet’s chest with a barely visible grin on her face.

More drawings than ideas covered the following pages, the woman in various poses and loose flowing dresses as the dates showed the progression of time. One page was full of nothing but names in neat little rows, which left him a bit confused. Many were scored through, some had question marks beside them and a handful were circled, tiny notes in that other script saying things like,

No, too austere sounding

or

This is a possibility, short but smooth, no harshness

The penny only dropped when he saw the name Carlo was one of those circled. Looking back between the earlier and later drawings he finally identified the small but noticeable swelling of her abdomen, what little information he had on the subject telling him why that might be important. (That was something he should probably try searching the anatomy text about, he knew basically nothing about human reproduction.)

There was quite the gap in dates then, a good three months before the next entry. The drawing after that, dated early October of 1877 was different to the others. It was no less meticulously drawn but the lines were harsher, darker in places. The softness of prior drawings was missing, an almost jagged quality giving a foreboding edge.

The woman was reclined on a daybed, covered in a woollen throw. Her abdomen was visibly rounded even under the thick blanket, both hands covering the protruding bump. The right was wrapped in bandages, the layers of cloth perfectly detailed. Her face was haggard, cheeks now shadowed as though concave. Her hair lay unbound, a dullness to it that was in stark contrast to the shine of earlier drawings. She was smiling but it was an exhausted looking thing, thin and sad. Spreading across her face and down her neck were rough, darkened patches, the scaled, stony texture all too familiar.

There were no drawings of Camille after that.

What was written on the last page had no date, just a single scrawled line and a sketch.

She was right

The image was of a pristine ergo crystal.

~~~

Leaning back with a slightly shaky breath, (he’d sat down in Geppetto’s chair at some point) Pinocchio swiped a hand across his eyes to dispel some of the gathered moisture. There were still some pieces of folded paper tucked in the back of the journal, so he may as well look at them after all this.

The first was an obituary notice neatly cut from a newspaper, dated the 28th of January 1878.

Camille Alessia Geppetto (nèe Cerasani)

Born 1852 - Died 1878

Beloved wife & mother

Taken too soon, Krat has lost a shining star of mechanical genius. Mrs Geppetto, a brilliant technician of the Workshop union, succumbed to the ravages of petrification disease on the night of the 25th of January, in the year of our lord 1878.

She is survived by her infant son Carlo (2 months), husband Giuseppe (44) and sister Antonia Cerasani (40).

 

It took him a moment to realise what he was reading, eyes wide in shock as he reread the notice a second and then third time. Cerasani… then that meant Carlo was Antonia’s family… (A tiny part of him wondered if that was why she spent so much of her incredibly limited time and energy on him. He did his best to ignore it.)

That not so little revelation was something genuinely shocking and yet, made perfect sense when he thought about it. Why else would Geppetto be an old friend of a wealthy socialite who had nothing to do with the Workshop Union?

Setting that aside for now he unfolded the next piece, a charred and crumpled looking letter with edges that flaked off as he unfolded it. The contents were largely illegible, the only snippets he could read saying something about ‘incorrect report’ ‘damage incurred during investigation’ and ‘deepest apologies’. The partially charred alchemist crest was still visible, stamped at the bottom alongside a signature that was little more than a looping S.

A clock chimed the hour in the corner at the same time as a knock sounded loudly at the open door, making him jump to his feet.

“ Scusami my friend, I noticed the open door and my curiosity got the better of me.”

Heart thudding in his chest he sat back down before hastily shuffling the papers back into the journal and closing it, feeling oddly like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

“No it’s fine I just… was getting lost in all this. Can’t even understand half of it, these pages were strewn everywhere when I came in and all the drawers emptied.”

Venigni walked over to the desk slowly, his eyes lingering on the sparking globes of the chair before he looked down at the mess of papers cluttering the desk. His coat was folded and hanging over one arm, leaving him in only his waistcoat and shirt.

“Ah Pinocchio, I think it’s a little late after a very long day to be worrying about a mess like this. I was just heading to bed and perhaps you should too. Even if you can’t sleep, the mind generally benefits from some relaxation. Pulcinella is rather partial to reading poetry to ‘unwind his springs’, as he tells it.”

The man picked up one of the papers with a diagram of the legion arm on it, glanced at it and set it aside.

“Take this night at least to rest, these papers aren’t going anywhere. I would be pleased to help you sort these out tomorrow, you have but to say the word.”

Perhaps Venigni had a point, he was tired and somehow it was 10pm already. (Where had the time gone? Surely he hadn’t spent nearly 4 hours just reading that journal?)

“I… alright, I am a little tired. Would you help? Please? Much of this is too technical for my level of knowledge. Geppetto’s shorthand is… confusing when I don’t know the terms.”

Standing from the chair as Venigni agreed wholeheartedly, Pinocchio gathered up the journals and small box, resolving to store them in his room and look at the rest later. Walking around the desk he put one foot down the tiny step before suddenly remembering the bottle (the whole reason he was in the office to begin with) was still on the desk. Spinning on his heel and going to step back to grab the bottle, his foot slipped right out from under him. He’d stepped on an open book right at the edge of the step, his abrupt turn sliding the book over the lip and taking his foot and his balance with it.

He tried to recover his footing but he didn’t want to drop the journals, resulting in him sprawling on his left side with a heavy thud and a stifled hiss. The little box went spinning off across the polished floorboards as he lay there, surprised at how much such a simple tumble hurt, his arm zapping with unpleasant tingles and pain.

“Compagno! Are you alright? That was quite the little stumble!”

Venigni’s hands landed on his shoulder, his face showing surprise and concern as he hovered uncertainly.

“I’m fine. I just… wasn’t expecting that.”

Sitting up he couldn’t help but wince as his left arm was still crawling with stinging pins and needles, elbow aching where he’d landed on it. Rubbing the hurting arm he noticed Venigni’s slight frown as he watched the action.

“I really am fine, it’s just a bit sore. I’ve felt much worse.”

At his side the man grew very still.

“Then this… then pain isn’t a new sensation?”

Pinocchio gave him a slightly confused look, the tone in his voice not something he could place.

“No…? I’ve always felt it. I can’t fight properly if I don’t know when I’ve been hurt.”

Standing up carefully, Pinocchio was so focused on his balance and Venigni’s odd expression that he leaned briefly on the arm of the chair as he made sure his legs were steady. The inventor caught his small flinch as Pinocchio shied away from the padded form, realising what he was leaning on.

Secure in his footing now, Pinocchio subconsciously hugged the journals to his chest as he shot a furtive glance at the bottle sitting innocuously on the desk. He should probably just nip back later and get it once everyone was asleep, hopefully Venigni would think nothing of it.

~~~

Once again he questioned just what the hell Giuseppe thought he was doing when he created Pinocchio. Seeing the young… (man? puppet?) rubbing his elbow again made it all the harder to keep his thoughts off his face. Smiling amiably he ushered Pinocchio gently to the door, reassuring that he’d be happy to help tomorrow as long as the boy at least tried to rest. He made no mention of the books he was so reticent to let go of, nor the bottle more than one furtive glance had been directed at. He wasn’t blind, those sad lilac shimmers when he saw him at the desk were very telling. (Those eyes were another thing he couldn’t for the life of him explain, colours shouldn’t express emotion so clearly yet they did.)

If Pinocchio didn’t want to talk about it he was perfectly entitled, he was as much a person as anyone in the hotel. (Spring had honorary personhood at this point, she was a fixture as much as Polendina.)

Waiting until Pinocchio was out of sight he closed the door, covered his face with both hands and just breathed for a long, long moment.

Composed, Venigni took his time turning on the various lights around the large office, tidying books as he went. He also found a few loose sheets of paper that must have blown off the desk and under various pieces of furniture. He didn’t bother looking at them yet, time enough for that later.

Finished, he stood in front of what was clearly once a barbers chair, before it had been heavily modified. He could see wires linking the chair to the sparking generators and with a heavy heart he fished around in his pocket.

Pulling out an old iron hex nut, edges polished to a shine from how often he’d rubbed it between his fingers over the years, he held it over the arm of the chair and lowered his hand.

It was wrenched out of his fingers around three inches above and sank deep into the padding. He couldn’t remove it by force.

Finding the switch that controlled the magnets on the side panel of the chair, he methodically tested all the areas with the nut.

Forearms, both shoulder blades, mid back, pelvis, lower thighs. Thgat's where the magnet would correspond.

No less than 8 very heavy duty magnets were embedded in the modified chair, not counting the separately magnetised footplate. He remembered the innocent confusion in Pinocchio’s voice as he claimed he’d always been able to feel pain and that flinch as he inspected the dried blue spatters on the chair and in the crevices of the tools laid out on the miniature worktable. The blue-black congealed mess staining the metal bowl made his jaw clench painfully. He turned off the chair and proceeded to disconnect it from its power source, cutting the cables connecting the generators.

He made a mental note to have the whole apparatus removed, feeling vaguely sick.

Turning away from the eyesore he stopped beside the desk, one glance at the label on the bottle telling him exactly what it was. Well that was most probably one question answered. He took a seat with a heavy sigh, sleep wasn’t likely to happen tonight.

Giuseppe… why? Why did he do it? Why did he try to recreate Carlo, then turn around and cause the frenzy? Why cause his second child (for that's Pinocchio truly was, surely he had to have seen that) pain and make him fight?

It had taken Venigni only a couple of days to place the strange familiarity he had on first seeing Pinocchio’s face. While it wasn’t an exact fit with the freckles and blue eyes, plus looking older than Carlo ever got… it was still his face. He hadn’t seen him often, only a handful of times at Antonia’s Christmas parties. The boy had always seemed withdrawn, expression usually ranging from shy to sullen even when he was hiding behind Antonia. He had known Carlo didn’t get on with his father, from what little he’d seen and what Antonia had told him in confidence.

After his death Giuseppe had completely withdrawn from society, shutting everyone out. The past six years the man might as well have been a ghost, barely seen out and for the last three years had completely vanished. He’d only really reappeared three months before the frenzy started, a little colder and a lot more private. Venigni wondered how much of that time he’d spent designing and building Pinocchio.

Rubbing his hands through his hair Venigni stared sightlessly at the paper strewn desk before he sighed. He might as well start sorting these while he was here, he was familiar enough with Giuseppe’s shorthand to read most of this… probably.

The first sheet he took from the scattered mess was, of all things, a very complex equation on the theoretical maximum density of concentrated ergo when bound up in… some kind of synthetic matrix. In total he found over half a dozen variations of this particular equation, each with increasingly unknown terminology.

After that, he fished out all the pages that looked like they dealt with legion arm designs and sorted through them. Among the varied designs were a handful actually on what could only be Pinocchio’s frame, his ‘skeletal structure’. After a moment of guilty contemplation he dived in, he just... needed to read enough to properly sort the sections, that's all.

Many of these design choices were years ahead of what the factory used. The way the spine was shaped and articulated alone was genius, allowing such a human range of motion without losing strength. The alloy used was something he wasn’t familiar with and he found himself wishing he had a sample to test. (Not that he'd be building puppets after this, at least not with ergo… He was just academically interested, that’s all.)

It was as he was going through the rest of the pages that he realised… they all seemed to be about Pinocchio. Synthetic muscle, eye structure, a full eight (fascinating) pages on the quartz integrated into his neural circuitry, though there were a few… oddities.

The more he read the more that little niggle grew. He really shouldn’t be looking at this without Pinocchio’s explicit consent but… something was off. There was no mention so far of the many touch sensors and extensive wiring you’d need for such a widespread and delicate system, not even to denote where they’d connect to or pass through the various components. The only thing he saw mentioned was ‘neural channels’ and ‘supplementary ergo ducts’.

His disquiet grew more pronounced as he stumbled on pages about the mechanical ‘organs’ and he gained an inkling of what purpose those earlier equations served. Yet… why store it? Ergo didn’t deplete in energy over time, puppets required more when it was lost through leaks or, or injury. All this system did was create a constant and unnecessarily greater need for ergo.

Feeling confused and a little sickened, (Eugenie should never see these notes, ideally nobody should) Venigni went through the rest of the pages. The first was about skin composition but the entire page was scored out, unnecessary and altered scribbled in the bottom corner. He’d seen other small sections on different pages scored and labelled similarly, much to his puzzlement.

Then he read the remaining pages and his heart dropped, nausea churning in his gut. Now he knew why there was no mention of touch sensors, or any system or calibration method responsible for pain signals.

One-winged angel have mercy, he’d have never thought such a thing was possible if he wasn’t reading it.

This… this was madness and genius in equal, horrendous measure. Two words above all made him nearly sick at what they might entail in this context.

Live donor.

He didn’t have the words…

Swallowing his nausea he leaned back, mind blank. He… didn’t quite know how to proceed after that. Mechanically he stacked up the pages, torn between hiding or burning the whole lot, but especially the last section. Honestly despite the state Krat was in, these papers were still incredibly dangerous. If anyone in a position of authority or power understood these enough to, heaven forbid connect them to Pinocchio… it didn’t bear thinking about.

Standing, he took the pages and tucked them into the inner pocket of his coat. Not even bothering to look at the clock (he knew it was some ungodly time in the morning by now) he turned off the desk lamp and picked up the bottle of solvent. Pulccinella stood waiting by the door, he’d slipped in at some point without Venigni noticing.

“Is there something the matter Master Venigni, you seem… perturbed. ”

He didn’t think he had it in him to even attempt to explain what he’d found so he just shook his head.

“I’ll be back in a moment Pulcinella, I just need to deliver this.”

The butler raised one eyebrow and opened the door.

“I shall turn off these lights then and wait back in the suite Sir.”

He heard the faint admonishing tone and restrained a sigh, knowing Pulcinella was going to chastise him over his sleeping schedule (or lack of it) again. Walking out the door he paid no mind to the blank canvass hanging on the wall, heading towards Pinocchio’s suite.

Knocking lightly on the door he listened and waited, expecting a voice or the boy himself to open the door. Instead there was nothing and a second knock got just as little response. Carefully opening the door he peered inside, calling out quietly. The lights were off in the sitting room so he tiptoed inside and placed the bottle on the coffee table.

Turning to go he spotted the bedroom door was open and he sighed, quietly crossing the room to close it (he couldn’t help himself, he had a thing about open doors). Dim light was visible inside as he reached for the handle and he glanced in, expecting to see Pinocchio engrossed in a book or some other pursuit in the lamplight.

What he wasn’t expecting to see was Pinocchio bundled up in bed, duvet pulled up nearly to his nose in a display that made him look painfully young and undeniably, indisputably fast asleep.

Chapter Text

Turning to go he spotted the bedroom door was open and he sighed, quietly crossing the room to close it (he couldn’t help himself, he had a thing about open doors). Dim light was visible inside as he reached for the handle and he glanced in, expecting to see Pinocchio engrossed in a book or some other pursuit.

What he wasn’t expecting to see was Pinocchio bundled up in bed, duvet pulled up nearly to his nose and undeniably, indisputably fast asleep.

~~~

Back in his suite Pinocchio went straight to his bedroom, carefully storing the journals on the bookshelf. It was only then he remembered the little box sliding away when he fell and he groaned, banging his forehead lightly on the bookcase. Well, that was just something else he had to retrieve later.

Urgh he was tired, maybe Venigni was right and he should just try and shut off for a bit. It hadn’t really worked the other times he’d tried, but at least the bed was a comfortable place to read. Plus there was something just a little soothing about the whole ‘ritual’ of preparing to rest.

Divesting the many layers of clothes and restrictive boots, soaking in a hot bath, dressing in the loose soft sleepwear and curling up under a warm duvet.

Even when he was unquestionably still a puppet he saw the appeal.

Sticking his now bare feet into the house slippers, he wiggled his toes in the wonderfully warm lambswool lining. Doing these very human things also made him feel that little bit more… alive, even if he didn’t really like admitting it to himself.

Pulling the nightshirt over his head he reached back and carefully undid Eugenie’s hair tie, taking a moment to inspect the worn leather and faded foreign characters before placing it on his nightstand. Running his fingers through the long silver strands and scratching behind his ear he looked around, searching for his brush.

The ornate silver hairbrush had been a gift from Antonia shortly after his hair had first started to grow. He’d come back from a supply run on an especially wet, windy day and the old woman had taken one look at him before asking Polendina to…

“fetch one of the spare brushes would you please? Poor dear looks like he’s been dragged through a hedge backwards then fallen in a pond for good measure!”

He’d then acquired a brand new hairbrush and Polendina had shown him how to use it, as his short hair had never needed more than a wash.

Spotting the brush on the dressing table he shuffled over and picked it up, silver cool and smooth in his hand. Dragging the bristles through his hair he closed his eyes at the sensation, the scratchiness pleasant against his scalp.

Opening his eyes he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror and paused mid stroke, staring at the strange sight.

He looked… startlingly different than the first time he ever saw himself, reflected in a shop window. Hair dark and short, face and clothes painted in oil from the puppet he’d just torn in half while the shining metal of the puppet string legion arm gleamed in the flickering electric lights. He’d looked… every inch a weapon meant to kill puppets.

Now though… Standing there in a pale nightgown, long silvery hair spilling past his shoulder and with two, all too human looking hands he really did appear…

Turning away sharply he put down the brush and went to get a drink of water, leaving the thought unfinished.

~~~

In the training courtyard of the hotel, a broken bundle of feathers blew gently in the wind. The dead, hollowed out crow lay where it fell, a smear of noxious green fluid still coating its feathers and winding up the snapped pole that once held a captive puppet.

Something moved in the bushes, then all was still once more.

~~~

Pulling the duvet up to his chin he sank into the mattress, warmth already winding along his limbs from a sip of concentrated ergo. Yes, he did need to relax and this was just the way to do it. He’d just… rest his eyes for a couple of hours… and… 

Before he could even complete his train of thought he’d drifted off to sleep, hair splayed across the pillow…

…………

Warmth and darkness surrounded him, safe and content. A familiar voice hummed quietly nearby and fingers carded softly through his hair. A butterfly kiss, barely felt, landed on his forehead.

The Arm was a feathered roof blocking out any light, a part of him yet not. He felt the way it twitched, the distant sensation of it pulling at his shoulder. It settled closer as he turned his face further into the other source of warmth beneath the Arm, a blanket of feathery softness covering head to toe and a lulling rhythmic beat in his ear.

A small, smothered laugh breathed warmth into his hair, unfamiliar arms yet achingly familiar ergo wrapped tight around him. It felt wonderful, something that whispered of care and comfort and safety.

Pleasant tingles ran down his spine as the hand continued combing through his hair.

~~~

Curlued beneath that soul tinted wing, an arching roof of vibrant, shadowed blue the woman held him close. A gentle but proud smile on her face, she parted his hair and found the little tufts of blue starting to grow. He’d come so far from the little spark of ergo he once was… It may not have been expected but it was an opportunity she would cherish. She would help him as much as she was able, make these changes as easy to bear as she could. If what that Voice said was true... she wouldn't be here, like this, forever. She didn't know why, or how but this time was precious.

It warmed her heart to see him so relaxed, so at peace for once. She felt such sickening guilt at what she’d asked him to do in her pain and delirium. She never wanted to hurt him like that again, the regret a physical ache.

Did she love him? Yes, she could say that with certainty. Not the love of a paramour, no this was familial, protective… He was her boy, the closest thing she'd ever have to a child of her own, having watched him grow and stumble and learn.

The small cold shape pressed against her back shifted, an ethereal hand tugged, almost unfelt at her sleeve. Ah, he wanted to try speaking to Pinocchio again. Perhaps it would work this time. Hopefully he wouldn’t be too nervous, he didn’t know how kind Pinocchio was. Stopping her stroking she leaned over and planted a featherlight kiss on his temple.

“Pinocchio, my Clever One, there’s someone here to see you...”

~~~

Stirring from the fog of comfort he opened his eyes and blinked. He was somewhere else now, moonlight streaming through a window. The room was small, with a sloped roof and two child sized beds set opposite each other. (Distantly, he noted that he was wearing the poet shirt, something he hadn’t worn since his first night in the hotel.) Sitting up he planted his bare feet on the floor, hands gripping the edge of the mattress. Behind him the Arm flexed, the sweeping plumage spilling over the end of the small bed where he sat and fanning out over the worn floorboards.

Across on the other bed, someone was watching him. The figure was small, child sized if he had to guess. The moonlight pouring in through the window behind it left it painted in silver and black, light shining through it in places that should have been solid. The moonlight showed how fundamentally, unnaturally broken the figure was.

Staring at the child sized figure felt like looking at an old, discarded doll that had been broken and abused before being tossed aside. Its left arm for example ended in a jagged, misshapen stump that twisted together like the limb had been crushed before being torn off. Silvery moonlight shone through where the eyes should have been, the holes eerily similar to those left behind by a pencil punching through paper.

The one place that was different was the void where the heart should have been. The cavity was darker than the surrounding shadows, a pit of absolute blackness hollowing out that thin chest. Yet, within it the tiniest spark of gold resided, floating in darkness like a star in the night sky.

Despite its arguably nightmarish visage Pinocchio felt neither fear nor trepidation, just accepting of its appearance in a way unique to dreams. If anything, looking at the small form perched uncertainly on the other bed made him sad. He knew it wasn’t dangerous, it couldn’t hurt him if it tried.

The figure appeared to be a boy, short curled hair over a ghostly pale face and a dark blazer and shorts. It sat there for a long moment, seemingly studying Pinocchio as much as he was studying it. The small figure seemed… nervous, if he had to put a name to the way it fidgeted. Its remaining hand gripped the hem of its blazer, twisting and tugging the fabric. Its socked feet hung limply off the bed, a good couple of inches off the floor due to the child’s small stature.

Finally it seemed to pluck up the courage to speak and its voice was just as broken as the rest of it. Fractured sound clips stitched on top of one another made its voice. It was uniform only in its higher, childlike pitch. Some of the words were so distorted he couldn’t even make them out.

“W̸i̶l̵l̵.̸.̵.̸ ̶w̴i̷l̴l̵ ̵y̷o̶u̷ ̵h̷e̸l̵p̷ ̸u̶s̴?̵ S̵̷̷̴̵̵̴̴̢̢̛̙̥̼̬͈̭̩̼̙͔̋̀͌̏͒̈́̅̑̀̎́̎͛̿̚͜͠ȭ̸̷̶̴̷̷̡͍͍̤͖̝̜̰͕̂̉̔̆̆͂̀́͜p̴̵̸̴̵̷̶̸̛͓̤̲̞̗̟̟͖͙̟̱̌͆͗̎͛̓̓̌̀̔͘̕͜͝h̵̶̴̶̶̸̶̷̶̶̫̦̰͔͖̮̣͕̳̹̠̺̳̜̫̍̿͋̓́͆̉̈́͌̉͂̃̑̈́͌͘͘͠į̴̶̴̸̴̷̶̸̨̻̰̬̦͉͖̙̙̮̣͐̿̌̿̄̂͗̒̓̕͜͝ͅa̴̶̴̴̵̴̷̸̵̘̖̮̻̜͔͕̥̥͇̠͕̟̿̾̐̎͐͌͑̇̎̋̕ s̷a̶i̴d̵ ̷y̷o̸u̸ ̸w̸o̷u̷l̴d̴.̵.̵.̸”

It shuffled off the bed awkwardly and limped a little closer, the sound of glass grinding together painfully as it moved. Its shoulders hunched and it stared at him with a posture that nearly screamed how wary it was. It spoke again, though its words were a bit confusing.

“C̶a̵n̷ ̸y̶o̵u̸ ̸̴̵h̷e̸l̵p̷ ̸u̶s̴?̵ Y̴o̷u̴ ̸k̵e̵p̵t̶ ̷a̷ ̷p̸ie̸ce̴ ̵o̸f̷ ̴u̷s̴ ̴s̷a̵f̵e̵.̵.̵.̵”

What did it mean, that he kept it safe? Pinocchio looked at that head of short, suddenly familiar hair, took in the naval cut of the dark uniform and felt disbelief filter through the dream induced calm. It was gradual, the clues fitting together like a jigsaw puzzle in his mind but slowly, surely he knew who this was.

“Carlo… you’re Carlo…!”

The name left him in a whisper, shock colouring his tone. He leaned forward and stared, noting in dismay just how small the boy was. Pinocchio didn’t know how to estimate ages in humans, but he knew enough to guess this wasn’t the size of one over a decade in age.

“Hold on, how are you like this? Why are you so young, I thought you were older when…?” 

The boy flinched before he gave Pinocchio a wary look.

“I̷ ̴w̶a̶s̵,̵ ̵a̷n̶d̴ ̴I̶ ̷w̸a̵s̷n̷'̸t̸.̸ ̴C̷a̵r̷l̴o̷ ̷w̴a̶s̵ ̶o̵l̵d̷e̴r̵ ̶w̵h̴e̴n̷ ̵w̵e̴ ̶d̵i̶e̴d̵,̸ ̴b̶u̵t̷.̷.̶.̸ ̴C̴a̷r̴l̸o̸ ̶s̷t̵a̵r̵t̷e̴d̶ ̷b̸r̴e̶a̴k̵i̷n̴g̸ ̸a̶ ̶l̴o̴n̸g̵ ̴t̷i̷m̷e̵ ̷a̴g̶o̷.̴ ̴I̶’̷m̸ ̶o̵n̷l̶y̶ ̶a̶ ̵s̴m̶a̸l̸l̶ ̷p̶a̴r̷t̷ ̶o̶f̷ ̴t̸h̷a̶t̵.̴”

What did that mean? As though sensing his confusion (or just reading it from his face) the boy elaborated with a hesitant tone to his multifaceted voice.

“C̸a̷r̴l̷o̸'̷s̶ ̴s̸o̵u̴l̶ ̴i̷s̸ ̷b̵r̶o̶k̶e̴n̶,̶ ̵w̵e̸'̶v̵e̵ ̴b̴e̴e̴n̶ ̶b̸r̶o̸k̶e̴n̵ ̷s̷i̵n̸c̸e̶ ̷b̵e̶f̴o̴r̵e̷ ̵w̴e̸ ̷d̸i̸e̸d̶.̷ I̴'̵m̴ ̸j̷u̸s̷t̴ ̴a̷ ̴p̴i̷e̵c̷e̴ ̸t̸h̷a̵t̷ ̷g̶o̵t̷ ̸l̸e̶f̸t̵ ̷b̴e̶h̶i̵n̸d̵ ̸y̶e̴a̵r̸s̷ ̸a̷g̵o̶.̴”

Pinocchio had so many questions. How could a soul break into pieces before it was crystallised by PD? How had it happened to Carlo in the first place? Most importantly though…

“But… I thought I carried Carlo, that I…”

He couldn’t quite finish. ‘I thought I was Carlo, made with his soul but I never remembered his past.’ The boy however shook his head.

“N̸o̷,̵ ̷I̶ ̶d̴o̶n̸'̵t̴ ̸t̷h̵i̴n̶k̷ ̵y̵o̷u̷ ̵w̸e̸r̵e̸ ̷e̶v̴e̴r̸ ̵p̴a̴r̴t̶ ̷o̶f̵ ̵u̵s̵,̷ ̸b̴u̴t̸ ̴y̶o̷u̸,̵ ̸o̶r̶ ̶t̸h̵e̷ ̴h̸e̴a̵r̸t̷ ̷h̶a̸d̴ ̶t̸h̵e̴ ̴p̴i̶e̴c̸e̷ ̶t̵h̴a̵t̷ ̷F̶a̷t̴h̵e̴r̵.̶.̶.̷”

The boy’s voice stuttered and died as he seemed to shrink in on himself, a heavy pause before he continued.

“̸T̴h̵a̸t̴ ̸p̶i̸e̵c̷e̴ ̴o̵f̸ ̴u̵s̶ ̶i̸s̶n̴'̶t̴ ̴i̶n̵ ̷y̸o̸u̸ ̴a̶n̸y̶m̶o̷r̷e̴.̸ ̶I̴t̸'̸s̸ ̴n̵e̵a̷r̴b̵y̴ ̸t̴h̵o̵u̶g̶h̶.̸”

Pinocchio didn’t quite know how to react to that, feeling like a large chunk of his worldview had just turned upside down. If Carlo was never part of him, then how could he even exist? He wanted to ask that and a dozen other questions, but looking at the small, deeply broken child he couldn’t force himself to voice them. There was one thing he really did need to ask though.

“Carlo, how do you know that? If you’re broken, how do you know I don’t have it?”

A sense of muted anxiety leached into the air, the boy clutching and twisting the hem of his blazer.

“W̷e̸…̴ ̵w̷e̵’̵r̷e̶ ̴n̸o̵t̷ ̶b̶r̶o̵k̸e̴n̷ ̷a̶l̷l̷ ̶t̶h̶e̸ ̴w̸a̵y̷,̵ ̸I̷ ̶s̶t̴i̶l̸l̵ ̸f̷e̴e̵l̷ ̴t̶h̶e̶ ̸r̸e̵s̸t̶ ̸o̷f̵ ̸u̶s̷.̸ ̶T̷h̵e̴r̶e̸’̷s̷ ̵m̸e̸,̵ ̸t̶h̵e̵ ̸p̸i̸e̶c̷e̶ ̴y̶o̷u̵ ̵h̷a̸d̶ ̶a̴n̴d̵ ̷t̷h̴e̴n̴…̸”

He trailed off, pale face somehow growing even paler as he flinched, hand coming up to cover the cavity in his chest. The boy looked sick, a tremble starting in his hand that grew to a full body shudder.

“T̷h̶e̷ ̴p̸i̴e̵c̷e̸ ̶o̴f̴ ̵m̴e̵ ̴y̶o̴u̴ ̶h̷a̵d̷,̶ ̸y̶o̷u̸ ̴h̸a̶v̷e̵ ̴t̶o̷ ̶g̸e̸t̸ ̷i̵t̵ ̷a̶n̴d̶ ̴k̵e̴e̴p̵ ̴i̶t̵ ̴s̴a̵f̵e̶.̴ ̷P̵l̶e̶a̸s̷e̴,̵ ̷y̸o̷u̶ ̵h̴a̶v̸e̶ ̶t̷o̵ ̸h̸e̵l̶p̵,̴ ̸y̵o̷u̸ ̴h̴a̸v̵e̷ ̵t̷o̷ ̵k̸e̶e̸p̴ ̷u̵s̷ ̵s̶a̸f̴e̶!̶ I̵f̸ ̵F̷a̴t̷h̸e̴r̴ ̵f̵i̵n̸d̸s̴ ̶u̸s̵.̵.̶.̵”

Fear bloomed across the boy’s incomplete face, hand coming up to trace the tattered holes where his eyes should have been. His voice took on a hysterical edge and became impossible to make out, layering and warping in his clear panic.

“F̸͍͙̆̔͒͠ắ̴͚̣̜̤͖̃t̷̹͈͚̀̋h̸̢̭̺̑͌̓ê̵̦̟̾ͅŗ̶̥̇̿̓̐ ̵̲͚͂͌͋̋͗ͅc̵̡̗̙̀͌̉à̸̘̀n̷͍̼͈͝'̶̳̭̣͖̃͜t̶̫̞̓̄ͅ ̶̤͓͕͚͉͋̃͒͐͝f̵̛̫̬̯͒͗͝į̷͇̓n̸͔͍̒̀d̸̝͇̬͔͚̆͗͝ ̷͇̀́͂̊̉u̶͉̜͠s̷͙͔͌̔̊,̸̢͕̇̚ ̴͓̩̆͛͜h̵̞̙̞̰̺́͋͛̉̕e̵̝͋̀̍ ̷̡̫̣͊̆m̸̩͌͘ų̴͙͍̝̈͊s̴̱̤̹̬͊̔̕t̴̤̠̤͕͊͋̋n̷̜̱̈́̋̈'̴̤̘̉̚͠t̴̠͇͓̺͚̕͝!̸̹̫̜̊ ̶̛͇͙̈́I̴̫͔̳̭̰͑̕͘f̷̲̩̐͑̊̍͝ ̵͍̩͙̘̀̏̾͐̏h̷̜̝͎̭̓͒͊ẽ̴͇̞͐̋ ̵̰͓͓̞̗̍d̵̦̜̬͖̖̿o̶̟̗̱͈̻̽ĕ̴̜̮͍̙͋͂s̴̨͓̼̞͘,̷̢̩̯̥̈́̓̑ ̶̢̠͍͙̿̈́́͠h̶̠̬̠̀e̵̬̜̱̟̐̋'̶̥̬͎̅́́͗͝ḑ̷̡̞͕͛͊͗͝ ̷̅̌̄̕͜͜ḻ̵̛̝̳̯̼͑̾̄e̴̗͇͉̖̓t̶̮̊͗̌̄̎ ̶̭͈͋̊͂̇t̷̥̦͙͇͠h̵͍͆̌̔͑e̷̗͛̚ͅ Ą̶̷̴̶̵͉̰̯̥̭̫̖̹͔͙͓̎͊̈́͗̒̀͘m̴̸̴̵̶̵̷̢̥̖͚͙̤̫̻̙͇͇̥̞̩̰̻̰̖̤̯̳̆̿̋̇͒͐̈̓͋̋̇̒̉̔͒͒̓̽̿̾̅̚å̴̸̵̷̴̵̶͓̲̹̝͔̖̪͕̰̗͉̩̰̽̆̄̂̅̀͗̑̈́̕͜͝͝ͅͅl̵̸̵̴̴̸̷̸̶̷̵̷̡̢̧̛̤̼̗̱͔̭̘̜͓̜̙̭͕̟̱̬͉̝̲͈̭͓̠̝͇̼̯͓͔̰̬͕̯̯͒̐̆͑̽̄̐̑͛̊͊̈́͛͛̋̑͒̔̑͆͌̈́͛́̊̐̑͘̚͘͜͝͠͠͠g̵̸̸̸̶̷̵̢̧̧̢̢̢͔͓͈̫͚͈̠̣̖͓̘͎̅͛͑̒̎̏̆̎̒̿̅̎͒̑͊͌̌͝a̸̵̸̵̴̶̸̷̵̷̵̛̪͕͕͉̭̫̯̜̭̮͓̼͓̪̘̱̯͉̅̈̐̄͂̅͐̊̇̌̌̌͆͌̋̑̃̅̃̋̉̌̔͆͆͒͛̈́̊̀̅͂̕̚͘͠͠͝͝ͅͅṁ̸̷̴̵̵̶̶̡̨̧̧̜̘̟͎̣̫͓̝̯̜̙͎͈͔͇̬̟̣͓̥͐̋̓̄͋̾̅̅̆̎̀̾̅̎͋͑̌̾̿̄̉̏̔̃͜͝ ̸̛̜͎͖̝͝ḛ̴̊̊̀͋̕ȃ̸̦̪̣̠͈͛̅ṭ̵͂͛ ̴̘̝̥̭͔̾̋͘t̷̬͔̹̊̄h̸̝̃̉̀̏ͅę̷̻̉͂̏͝ ̶̢̯͙͋́̇ͅr̸̛̤̖͉͗̃̾e̴̘̹̲̖͉̓̓̎s̸̬̯͔͇̃t̷͓̑ͅ ̸̟̆͐̌̀̅ó̵̟̈̚f̸͎͙͉̅̉͂̀ ̶̜̙̟̰̙͛͑̈́̈́͂ǘ̴̧̢̠̱̯s̸̻͗́͝!̸̘̀̈́̋ ”

The outburst surprised him, but like a switch had been flipped Pinocchio no longer saw a broken, eyeless ghost. Instead he saw a whole, terrified boy, dark eyes brimming with fearful tears. His heart clenched at the naked fear there, at each too fast breath.

Sliding off the little bed he knelt before Carlo, one hand reaching out. He stopped though when the boy flinched away, hands raised in a warding motion as though expecting to be struck. Oh… oh no…

He spoke gently, quietly, proffered hand open and relaxed in invitation.

“Carlo? I’m not going to hurt you, I promise. You don’t need to be scared, I want to help.”

Behind him the Arm arched up and curved round, radiant blue feathers spread wide as they swept the floor and brushed the sloped ceiling in the small room. The space beneath was a silent offer of comfort and shelter. 

The boy’s thin chest heaved as he tried to stifle fragmented, staticy gasps. Carlo hesitated for a long moment, eyes flicking between the outstretched hand and Pinocchio’s face. Slowly, oh so slowly the boy reached out, fingers cool as they slid into his larger hand. Carlo stilled, a look of surprise crossing his face before he sniffed wetly and his lip wobbled.

The next thing Pinocchio knew a small body was impacting his chest, burrowing close and trembling. Equally small hands fisted in his shirt, face hidden in the white fabric. Something about one of those hands felt off, too hard to be flesh and bone. He almost missed the boy’s mumbled words in his surprise.

“I̵ ̸d̸i̵d̸n̶'̷t̸ ̵t̵h̵i̸n̵k̵ ̷y̴o̷u̴'̵d̵ ̶b̷e̸ ̴s̸o̴ ̶w̵a̴r̸m̷.̴.̶ ̷ ̷n̵o̵t̷ ̴l̴i̷k̵e̷ ̸t̴h̶i̵s̷.̷”

He wasn’t quite sure what Carlo meant, but he did note how terribly cold the child felt. Wrapping his arms around the boy, he felt the way Carlo melted into his hold, a choked sniffle escaping the boy. Through the hand settled on his small back Pinocchio could feel that fast little heartbeat thrumming away, still quickened from fear.

Curling right round, the Arm completed the little cocoon, luminous blue feathers hiding the child from any outside eyes.

For what felt like several minutes he just sat back on his heels and cuddled the boy, rubbing his back and purring. When he realised he was supporting all of Carlo’s barely felt weight, he glanced down at the dark head tucked under his chin. The boy was as limp as Spring after a thorough brushing, sock clad feet lax and barely touching the floor.

Well, it didn’t look like he’d be able to ask any more questions, Carlo was ‘out like a light’ as Eugenie would say. He could wake him but… he didn’t have the heart to. He didn’t want to see the boy afraid again, and he had the sinking feeling that’s what would happen if he asked about the outburst. He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to find out why Carlo feared being found by Geppetto either.

Picking the boy up when he stood didn’t get a peep of protest, just a little sigh. Pinocchio thought about putting him in one of the beds, but his small form still felt cold. Well, it probably wouldn’t hurt to sit and just hold him for a while. If this was a dream (albeit this didn’t quite fit what Antonia had described dreams to be like) then he would just wait until it ended and hope he remembered it.

~~~

Waking up was, Pinocchio learned a very slow process. In no small part due to just how comfortable he was. He spent an indeterminable amount of time floating in that half aware state, cosy, settled and completely relaxed. It was dark and quiet in his duvet cocoon, half curled around and hugging his pillow.

It was only when a feeling he sadly recognised made itself known that he moved. Pulling the duvet down from where he’d had it tugged up over his head, he squinted at the bright winter sunshine coming through the windows. Reluctantly slipping out of bed, he stuffed his feet in the house slippers and shuffled off to the bathroom. Never should have drank so much water yesterday, at least he didn’t need Gemini to tell him what to do this time.

When he stepped back out of the bathroom, he realised the fireplace was lit. Huh, he really must have been asleep if he didn’t notice someone in his room. Absent-mindedly scratching an itchy spot above his ear, his fingers snagged on a tangle that he teased out without thinking. Why did he feel like he was forgetting something…?

Without knowing quite why he involuntarily took a deep breath, mouth opening wide enough that his jaw clicked. Wait, why did he just…? It happened again and the penny dropped as to what it was. He remembered an early conversation with Eugenie about the strange behaviour, when he’d seen her doing it copiously after she stayed up late cleaning the dirt from an exceptionally gummed up legion arm. He was yawning, a human behaviour that typically indicated tiredness before or just after sleep.

When it happened a third time he lifted his hand to cover it, remembering how the weaponsmith had said it was rude not to at least try to hide it. Okay, that was a new behaviour he’d have to deal with then.

Thoughts still muzzy from sleep he ambled over to the bed, fixing his pillow and folding the duvet. Shuffling to the wardrobe he stared at the selection of clothes inside for a long moment. Simple and functional for today. He should practise on the mindless training puppets and make sure the changes hadn’t altered his balance too badly. Maybe the exercise would help him feel more awake.

Pulling out a simple off white shirt, dark wool waistcoat and thick black linen trousers, he tossed them on a convenient chair and pulled the nightshirt up over his head. The move stretched something oddly just behind his left shoulder… and like a switch was flicked he remembered.

He froze as the dream (was that really a dream?) rushed back to him all at once. Parts of what Carlo (gods, he’d looked so young, where had he even come from…?) said were still unintelligible but he remembered most of it. He remembered something else as well and, dropping the nightshirt he craned his head to look at his left shoulder with wide eyes. Nothing was there, just smooth skin… and yet…

Rolling his shoulder he felt that pull again, so he tried moving it in various ways and sure enough, there was that slightly off feeling of something else stretching. It felt a little like a rubber band, or maybe several buried just behind his shoulder. Certain ways he moved caused the sensation to almost radiate out, pulling felt right across his back, chest and all the way down his left arm. It was admittedly faint enough to ignore, and didn’t seem to restrict his range of motion. Still, now he was aware of it and how it wasn’t mirrored in his right shoulder, he couldn’t really ignore it.

There was nothing visible no matter what way he moved or twisted though, so he could only note the odd feeling and move on with his day. Speaking of, there was something he needed to check…

In the dream Carlo had said:

“ ̸T̴h̵a̸t̴ ̸p̶i̸e̵c̷e̴ ̴o̵f̸ ̴u̵s̶ ̶i̸s̶n̴'̶t̴ ̴i̶n̵ ̷y̸o̸u̸ ̴a̶n̸y̶m̶o̷r̷e̴.̸ ̶I̴t̸'̸s̸ ̴n̵e̵a̷r̴b̵y̴ ̸t̴h̵o̵u̶g̶h̶.̸”

Could he have meant that? Was it really that easy?

Quickly getting dressed (he was hungry again but he’d deal with it later) he fought off another yawn as he hurried downstairs, hopping briefly on the landing to haul one boot on more securely. At his hip hung the dancer’s sword and the hunting knife, hastily stuffed through his belt. He didn’t really need to hurry, but a sense of urgency was spurring him on. If that little piece of ergo was part of Carlo, he needed to get it and make sure it stayed safe.

At the bottom of the stairs he took a sharp left to head for Eugenie’s workstation, covering up another yawn. She was already there, working on the hwando’s encrusted form with a tiny hammer and chisel. Judging by the pile of chipped off pieces she’d been at it for a while, and he found himself wondering just how long he’d slept.

The weaponsmith glanced up when she heard him coming, paused, put down her tools and… was she trying not to smile?

“Well good afternoon sleepyhead. I can see Pulcinella was right when he said you were ‘getting some well earned rest’.”

Pinocchio paused a few feet from her workbench, feeling a bit confused. Did she say afternoon?

“Um…”

Yes, that was definitely a smile she was attempting to hide, even as it spread and creased the corner of her eyes.

“Sit down a moment, you’ve got a rather impressive bedhead right now. I take it you forgot to brush when you woke up?”

Sitting down on the spare stool he reached up and felt hair that seemed to have tripled in volume since last night. How had it got so tangled just from lying in bed?

Eugenie had turned away and was rooting about in a drawer, muttering to herself.

“I’m sure I have a spare in here somewhere… huh, so that’s where Spring’s other mouse toy went… Aha!”

Proudly holding aloft a wooden paddle brush and comb she marched back over. Reaching the desk her enthusiasm seemed to falter, brush briefly clutched to her chest.

“Ah, do you want me to get out the worst of the tangles? They look pretty bad… If you don’t I can just…”

He tried to pull his fingers through a wadded up tangle at the back of his head and winced at the harsh tug. No, he didn’t want to try untangling this himself.

“If, if you wouldn’t mind doing it? I’m not used to it being this lo…”

Pinocchio trailed off into yet another hastily covered yawn.

~~~

He was actually yawning. She stared for a moment as he mumbled an apology, rubbing his eyes. Good heavens this boy… He had no idea what he looked like right now, did he? A head of tangled, sleep mussed hair; hazy, slightly unfocused eyes, no cravat and a missed button on his shirt. She could fully believe he had been sleeping until only a few minutes ago, looking like that.

She hadn’t quite believed it when Pulcinella had returned from checking on Pinocchio (the clocks had struck 10 and there was no sign of him) , only to announce that…

“Young Master Pinocchio is still sleeping soundly. I dare say he’s savouring some well earned rest.”

A not inconsiderable part of Eugenie had wanted to go upstairs and see for herself, inner technician worried something might be wrong. Mr Venigni hadn't been overly surprised though, just huffing a little laugh and shaking his head. He saw her concern and sighed, still smiling.

“No need to be worried signorina, I saw him asleep last night. He’s just resting.”

Back in the here and now, she had to fight off a smile (and a decent amount of fascination) at how perfectly, imperfectly human he looked, all bleary and rumpled from sleep. Stepping up behind Pinocchio she reached out, hesitated then pulled his hair back and began working the comb through it. Starting at the bottom, she slowly and methodically worked her way up, teasing out all the knots and tangles.

“So, did you want me to give those weapons an oil?”

She could hardly avoid noticing the Dancer’s blade hanging awkwardly from his belt, as long and strangely shaped as it was. He turned his head to glance back at her words before a gentle poke made him look forward again.

“Hmm? Oh no, I was just going to practise on the puppets in the courtyard, try not to trip over my own feet again.”

Gosh his hair was so silky, she was almost jealous of how easily these knots were coming apart…

“Again? You’re not clumsy, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you trip on anything.”

It was only because she was standing so close that she heard his next words, a tone as close to embarrassed as she’d ever heard from him, colouring his quieter than normal voice.

“I… slipped and fell because of a book last night. I stood on it and didn’t notice, my foot went out from under me and I couldn’t catch my balance…”

She couldn’t imagine him falling over anything, let alone due to a book! He always seemed so sure footed, moving as smoothly as any dancer or seasoned stalker.

Letting the comb drop she absentmindedly swapped it out for the brush, trying to think of something to say. Her first impulse was to ask if he was okay, but that was silly because of course he was.

She’d never seen him hurt, not physically anyway and certainly not by something as simple as a fall. The only damage she’d seen him suffer was to his legion arms. He could come back drenched in unidentifiable fluids with gaping tears in his clothes, but show no sign of physical harm. Indeed the worst ‘injury’ she’d ever seen was when he came back with the legion arm completely smashed and hanging from its port by a wire. She’d nearly had a heart attack but Pinocchio had only apologised for breaking her legion arm, as though that was what she’d been worked up about.

After that , she’d actually second guessed whether his body really was as durable as she’d assumed. She found herself wondering if it was luck or just pure skill that had kept him unharmed to that point. She’d just grown used to the idea, the expectation that he’d always come back, maybe scuffed and dirty but unhurt.

Laterly, when he’d trudge back through the doors looking so bone tired she half expected him to keel over going up the stairs, she’d had to remind (or reassure) herself that at least he didn’t feel physical aches and pains. Even the most advanced puppet only had touch and temperature sensors, no one had come up with any way to accurately simulate pain in puppets. (At least, nothing that hadn’t caused a self destructive overload sequence in any puppet tested. She… really didn’t want to think too deeply about that.)

As… as human as he appeared (was?) now, surely that hadn’t changed… right? That would be too much, even for whatever alchemic relic had changed him…

Violently pushing the thought aside (she was not mentally equipped to deal with the possible implications right now) she scrambled for something to say, aware the moment of silence was stretching uncomfortably.

“Well at least you didn’t land on anything sharp? … You didn’t land on a weapon or something, did you?”

Internally bemoaning how stupid that sounded, she missed the quick, puzzled glance he shot her.

“No I didn’t, just knocked my elbow.”

“Ah that’s good… I mean not good that you fell but good that you weren’t, you know, hurt … Not that a little fall would do anything to you, you’re you but all the same…”

Oh Angels above she was just making it worse! Stop digging the hole deeper!

Scrambling for any way to change the subject, she realised she was all but done with his hair. Dragging the brush slowly over the top of his head as her eye darted around her workspace, she automatically moved to follow when he leaned forward with a sigh. Spying the little box currently containing a certain cricket, she seized on a new topic.

“Oh, Mr Venigni fixed Gemini earlier, his legs are repaired and he’s right as rain now!”

When only a lazy ‘mmmph’ answered her she refocused on Pinocchio, finally noticing the way he’d slumped forward on her table. His chin was propped on his folded arms, eyes half shut and distant.

Experimentally she stopped brushing and after a moment a tiny frown furrowed his brow. A slow firm stroke of the brush, front to back earned a small pleased hum and his forehead smoothed, eyes falling shut.

Fascinated at this unexpected (and rather adorable) reaction she just continued stroking, brush catching ever so slightly on a few tiny but stubborn knots. She stood and watched as he just melted in his seat, somehow staying perched on the stool even as he sprawled across her worktable.

Those little snags were annoying when the rest of his hair was so smooth, so she carefully threaded her finger through the strands above his ear, trying to find and manually tease them out while she continued brushing. Pinocchio didn’t even twitch, either from being so relaxed or from genuinely having fallen asleep.

She felt the warmth coming off him as she sifted through the silvery strands, acutely aware of his body heat all of a sudden.

Her fingers felt something, not a snag but a little irregularity, a rough spot in her combing. That didn’t feel like a knot, stiff yet oddly soft at the same time. Curious, she leaned forward to get a look, parting the hair to better see the strange…

It was blue , a bright, iridescent ergo blue with a hint of black at the end.

It was also unmistakably the tip of a feather , emerging from a very short, stiff little tube, crumbling at the edge and poking out of the skin. It looked… very new, young and… and growing.

Searching out the other ‘snags’ she soon found them, more tiny spots of blue and black in a sea of silvery hair. Not knowing what to think she just stared, remembering the dovecot the Charity house used to have. The baby birds had always looked so strange when their adult feathers were coming in, off white tubes bristling from their little bodies as the feathers developed inside, only to crumble as the feathers grew and broke out.

She brushed the soft black tip of one small feather, just barely long enough to start peeking out of his now tamed hair. Her mind felt oddly blank, no inner voice clamouring about impossibilities for once. She was at a complete loss as to how to react to this new development.

What had that relic done to him?

Straightening up she absentmindedly smoothed the hair over the feathers before turning to fish out another spare hair tie.

He probably hadn’t noticed these himself yet, so she wasn’t going to say anything. Giving his shoulder a little shake, all she got was a sleepy mumble, face half hidden in his folded arms. A second, albeit halfhearted attempt proved just as ineffective. With a sigh she sat down and left him to his impromptu nap, drinking the last of her cold tea before she pulled on her gloves and got back to work. The relative mindlessness of the task helped somewhat, thoughts constantly drifting back to the bundle of improbabilities dozing on her table.

About half an hour later, the small carriage clock in the back of her workspace chimed 3pm and she heard footsteps. Glancing up she saw Pulcinella approaching, carrying a tray with what looked to be a fresh cup of steaming tea, small rack of toast and a little pot of what was probably jam.

While he didn’t possess a faceplate capable of much expression, the slight uptick of one eyebrow spoke volumes as the puppet took in Pinocchio’s napping form. When the butler spoke his voice was carefully modulated into a low but clear whisper.

“Master Venigni thought you might appreciate a little something, even if it is a little early for afternoon tea. I see the young Sir has also joined us… at least in some capacity.”

Eugenie cleared a space for the tray, quietly thanking Pulcinella as he took her empty cup.

“Master Venigni will be along shortly, I believe he wanted to test the fitting of the new gauntlet once Master Pinocchio had awoken… I shall inform him that may have to wait a little longer.”

That was definitely a wry tone to his voice. She was almost sure that Pulcinella had an ego, he had too much personality to be otherwise. She was also fairly sure Mr Venigni had nothing to do with the ‘early’ afternoon tea, she got the impression the butler was a bit of a mother hen when given the opportunity to express it.

She thanked him before he glided off in the direction of the kitchen, taking her empty cup and saucer with him.

The toast was still hot and ooh, there was even a little pat of butter off to the side! She knew the hotel had all but run out, fresh milk and butter being an impossibility after the months-long frenzy. What perishable food the hotel had in the early days of the frenzy, had been frozen in the custom freezer unit. Eggs, raw meat, butter, fruit and veg. There had been milk too, but she was fairly sure that was used up now.

It was pure luck that the hotel had been stocking up in preparation for the Grand Exhibition just before the frenzy hit… or perhaps Geppetto had taken that into account when he…

No, enough of that thought, she had butter on hot toast to enjoy. Gloves off!

Spreading the first slice she savoured the simple pleasure of hot buttered toast and jam, not noticing the subtle twitch of a nose not all that far away. Sleep glazed eyes opened and stared uncomprehendingly at the tray of food, a loud crunch as she bit her toast making his eyes flick up to stare at her.

“Mmrph…!”

She noticed and held up a jammy finger in a ‘wait a moment’ signal as she swallowed her mouthful of toast. She was about to speak when a muffled growl made them both jump. Pinocchio sat up, now looking wide awake and startled as he stared down at his abdomen.

“Was… was that your…?”

Eugenie trailed off before she could finish as another growl sounded.

“Are you hungry?!”

Pinocchio’s face conveyed his sheer confusion as he looked up, baffled and maybe a little alarmed.

“It’s never made noise before when I…”

His mouth snapped shut as he cut off the end of that sentence, alarm and a hint of guilt flitting across his face.

It was easy enough to put together and she just stared, appetite slowly vanishing even as she tried not to jump to one specific conclusion.

“You’re hungry, and you’ve been getting hungry since before going off to the alchemist’s isle… Why didn’t you say something?”

His shoulders hunched and he didn’t look her in the eye, clearly reluctant to answer. Yet, after a long moment he did.

“I told F… Geppetto the first time. He wasn’t surprised, he said it was ‘only to be expected’, that I just needed…”

“... more ergo, because that’s how he made you.”

She finished his sentence, that little flinch at her words all the confirmation she needed. He shrank in on himself, head down as he avoided looking at her. He was clearly waiting for a negative reaction and she… her own reticence clearly wasn’t helping matters.

Sighing she rubbed her face with both hands, pushing her glasses up in the process as she left a sticky streak of jam on her cheek.

“I… Pinocchio I’m not angry or… I’m just…”

There was no spare cloth handy that didn’t already have oil or ergo dust on it, so she just wiped it off with her other hand and licked her fingers clean. Horrible manners but she didn’t care under the circumstances.

“I don’t blame you for something you can’t control, I don’t think any less of you. I’m just feeling… It's all a bit much to process, these last few days. I think I just need a bit of time to…”

She huffed and scrubbed her face again, taking her glasses off as she massaged the bridge of her nose. She could feel a headache threatening to form, little warning aches behind her eyes.

“Damn it, I can't find the words I want today…”

Looking at his blurry shape, he was perhaps not quite so curled in on himself as before. Putting as much sincerity into her next words as possible, she made a blind grab for his nearest hand, squeezing what she hoped was reassuringly.

“This doesn’t change anything, you’re still my friend, you’re still you. I just need time to work through everything, that’s all. I can’t… I can’t promise it won’t take a while, just knowing where it comes from is… I can’t say it doesn’t make me uncomfortable. I’m going to work through it though, you don’t have to hide that you need it. The hotel’s your home and you shouldn’t have to hide or pretend in your own home.”

His hand slowly, tentatively squeezed back, fingers gently interlacing with hers. At any other time she’d have grown flustered, maybe even pulled away. Right now she was just glad he responded, a small, tired smile gracing her face.

Putting her glasses back on one handed she blinked, focusing on his face. He still wasn’t quite looking at her, but he’d uncurled at least somewhat from his defensive hunch. His eyes briefly flicked up, a glimmer of subdued lilac visible in their depths before he refocused on their clasped hands. Following his gaze Eugenie stared then stifled a groan. She’d missed a spot and smeared jam on both of them now!

Letting go (albeit reluctantly) she got up and searched for a less oily cloth to give him and use herself. Her appetite was gone anyway, a little oil wasn’t going to make the remaining toast any less palatable…

Unearthing a couple of polishing rags from a box of assorted tools, she turned to give him the cleaner one and stopped, mouth open and speechless.

He was licking the jam off his hand.

As off balance as she already was, words failed her and she just stared, watching him cautiously copy her earlier motions. He paused briefly mid lick, the tip of his tongue sticking out, nose wrinkled and a curious look on his face.

He looked disappointed…  

He saw her staring and quickly straightened up, tongue vanishing and expression trying to stay neutral, but ending up looking slightly guilty.

“I… it was only a little bit, so I thought I’d taste it. It smells interesting, but it doesn’t taste of anything…”

Eugenie dropped one rag on the table with a stifled sigh and used the other to wipe her hand, resisting the urge to massage her temples.

“First, I know I did it but it’s generally bad manners to lick your fingers. I shouldn’t have done it in the first place, so that’s on me for not saying anything. Second… I didn’t know you could smell things now! When did that start?”

Looking a little taken aback by her abrupt switch from mild chastisement to almost eager (she was forcing it a bit but he didn’t know that) questions, it took him a moment to answer.

“I’m not really sure? I’ve been able to for a while, it’s just been getting… easier, stronger as time went on.”

That actually was rather fascinating, she had no idea he had a sense of smell! Genuine interest pushed to the fore and she noted yet another thing he could do that other puppets couldn’t…

“The only place that really has pleasant smells is the hotel, the streets of Krat all smell… off putting.”

The more he spoke the more he seemed to relax, the taught line of his shoulders easing so she gently prodded for a bit more.

“Oh? What do you like in the hotel?”

“Well, I like the flowers from the garden… I like the way clean clothes smell and the scent of your hair… Oh, and I like the scent of the violet soap.”

He said it with complete honesty, innocently stating a fact but she still needed to hide her face in her hands, feeling the rising heat in her cheeks. Oh goodness…

She should just be glad that he obviously had no idea how that could be taken. He was a good liar for some things, but it was painfully clear how little he knew about… certain topics. He was as oblivious as he was endearing.

“Eugenie? Did I say something wrong?”

Oh and of course he’d notice, now of all times!

“No no I just… thought I was going to sneeze! It’s good that you found some things you like… By the way, what did you mean by ‘interesting’, did you mean the jam smelled nice?”

“No, not exactly. Before, the things you had to eat smelled… okay but nothing special, nothing that piqued my interest. Yesterday… some of it smelled really good, like it made me want to try it.”

Now that made her sit up and take notice. Embarrassment promptly forgotten, she perched on her stool and leaned forward, questions crowding her brain.

“Yet you said the jam didn’t have any taste? Can you taste things?”

He blinked and hesitated for a brief moment, head tilted a little as he seemed to consider.

“Yes. I’ve never tried food but I’ve got enough mud, sludge and other unpleasant things in my mouth to know that.”

“Hmm…”

His gaze flicked over to the jam pot, lips thinning subtly. She wasn’t sure if it was confusion or annoyance.

“It smells sweet so I thought it would taste like it.”

She wanted to ask how he knew what sweet smelled like but she knew the answer was probably Gemini. She’d rarely overheard the cricket talk, but those few instances he’d been invariably explaining something Pinocchio had asked about.

“Well what about tasting the butter, or my tea? The jam is very sweet, any tartness from the raspberries would just be in the fruit pieces…”

“Oh! You didn’t get a bit of fruit did you? Let me fish one out.”

Grabbing the jam spoon and pot she poked around until she found a nearly whole raspberry. (He was leaning forward now, cautious interest on his face.) About to offer it to him she hesitated, new concerns bubbling up.

“Wait, is it safe for you to try eating food? I know you’ve changed but… is it really enough to eat?”

He actually looked appropriately concerned about possibly blocking or fouling up his internals, frowning as he considered the problem.

“... The food you eat has never really appealed to me before now, the smell has never made me want to try it. Now it does though, as much as I really don’t like being sick that’s probably the worst that would happen…”

Slowly, deliberately he reached for the spoon. Eugenie knew if she pulled it away he’d let her, that was just the way he was.

The spoon slipped from her unresisting fingers and she watched with a mix of anticipation and misgivings, hoping this wasn’t a mistake.

The raspberry vanished into his mouth and the spoon hung idle between his fingers, a complicated look on his face. After a moment his eyebrows ticked up, clear surprise and… possibly enjoyment in his expression?

He swallowed but didn’t say anything for a long moment, flipping the spoon idly.

“...”

“I think I’d really like to try a fresh raspberry, that was… new… and I think I liked it.”

He put the spoon down on the tray, considering his words carefully.

“It wasn’t sweet but it was… tart you said?”

She nodded, part fascinated at his reaction and part praying this doesn’t end badly.

“Can I try a bit of your…?”

He pointed at the toast, clearly lacking the word to describe the item.

“Of course! It might be a bit dry… hold on, I'll put butter on it… Oh it’s called toast by the way. It’s usually served hot but these slices have cooled down a bit.”

Spreading a little butter on a fresh slice, she offered him the plate after removing her own part eaten slice. He took it, studying the way she held her piece before picking up his own. Tentatively he nibbled at one corner, chewing slowly and cautiously. An appreciative hum and a larger bite later, he was clearly enjoying himself, toast crunching quietly under his teeth.

When that slice was finished he looked longingly at the other pieces, but didn’t reach to take another.

“I probably shouldn’t have any more, not until I know it won’t make me sick…”

There were toast crumbs on the corner of his mouth and she watched him absentmindedly lick them off.

Goodness… the more impossible things she saw him do, the more she felt like she was watching a fairytale come to life. His name really was eerily suited to him, considering the many ways he was so wonderfully real now.

“Would you like to try some of the tea? I think it’s lemon and ginger…”

Taking the cup (still hot) she took a sip to check, even though she could certainly smell the ginger. It wasn’t sweet, there wasn’t enough sugar left to waste in tea but it was refreshing. She held the cup and saucer out for him to sniff, or take if he wanted it.

“Ginger is very warming, and is good to have when you’re sick or have a cold. Lemon is quite sour but it’s very refreshing in a drink, the two go together very well. The ginger and the lemon are fresh, they were both grown in the orangery here in the hotel. It’s a bit of a trek to reach, being down by the cliffside garden apparently, I haven’t seen it myself.”

Taking the cup from her, Pinocchio took a cautious sip and stilled. His eyes went wide and she’d swear the tiny feathers in his hair were more visible, as though they’d bristled.

She was worried for a moment that he didn’t like it, that it tasted horrible to him. It was an empty concern though, considering he drank nearly half the cup not a moment later.

“I take it you like that tea then?”

A quick nod was all the answer she got, his nose buried in the teacup once more as he had another sip. His eyes told her just how much he was enjoying it, electric blue sparks and twinkles of almost sunset pink merrily dancing away. (A thought occurred to her then. He’d need tinted glasses of some kind to pass as ‘normal’ when, or if, the city began recovering and rebuilding. Multicolour ‘mood ring’ eyes would attract too much attention. Perhaps Mr Venigni had a spare pair?)

“Oh here, before I forget and it gets tangled.”

She slid the hair tie over, a muffled hum of acknowledgement or thanks coming from the quickly emptying teacup.

“So you really like ginger and lemon then, don’t you?”

She struggled to suppress a laugh as he finally came up for air, tea finished and eyes sparkling with enjoyment.

“I do!”

This was possibly the most obviously happy she’d ever seen him, his emotions normally… not subdued but quiet in comparison to most people. He didn’t display his feelings very strongly, they were easy to miss if you didn’t know what to look or listen for.

“I’m glad you enjoy it, it’s… really nice seeing you so happy about something.”

She couldn’t stop the smile as he set down the empty teacup and picked up the hair tie, thinking for a moment before reaching back and carefully tying a low tail. The little smile on his face was the equivalent of anyone else positively beaming and she let herself enjoy the sight.

“Do you want to see Gemini now? He’s fixed, though his lamp will take some time to finish.”

“Yes please.”

He hesitated for a moment, looking between her and the tray.

“Ah, thank you for sharing your food. I didn’t mean to finish your tea, I’m sorry.”

She just laughed lightly, giving his hand a pat before she stood up.

Oh it’s fine, I have a carafe of water in the back, I won’t get thirsty. We’ll have to ask Pulcinella for more ginger and lemon, maybe go and take a look at the orangery and see if we can find some ready for picking!”

As though summoned by his name the butler came down the stairs carrying a box laden with tools, Mr Venigni trailing behind him with his face buried in a handful of notes.

After placing the box down among Mr Venigni’s models and machines in the opposite alcove (and subtly steering the man into his own workspace while he muttered to himself) Pulcinella walked over and stopped by the worktable.

“Good afternoon young Sir, I hope you had a good rest.”

Pinocchio took that statement at face value with a quiet affirmation, but Eugenie had to concentrate on keeping a straight face. Oh Pulcinella absolutely had an ego, that undertone of gentle sarcasm wouldn’t be there otherwise.

“Perhaps the young Sir should consider revisiting his buttons while I see if Master Venigni requires anything else for the fitting.”

So saying the butler turned and strode back across to the other alcove, leaving Pinocchio blinking in clear confusion.

“He means your shirt, you missed a button.”

She pointed out the gap, empty button hole just peeking out over his waistcoat. He hurriedly fixed it while she fetched Gemini’s box, moving the tray and grabbing another slice of (now cold) toast after she put it down.

She pushed the box over to him and focused on finishing the toast. Even if she wasn’t really hungry there was no sense in wasting it, supplies in the city were scarce and even having enough to be able to have afternoon tea was a luxury.

She only half paid attention as he opened the box and Gemini jumped out, parading about the worktop and chirruping loudly. She stood up again to get some water and came back to the tail end of a whispered ‘conversation’ between Pinocchio and the cricket. She didn’t try to listen in but caught a few words anyway.

“... Carlo’s… promise I’ll keep it safe. I’ll explain properly later.”

Carlo… that name rang a bell but she couldn’t quite remember why. It was obviously private though, the way both stopped and turned to look at her when she sat back down. Sipping at her glass she feigned ignorance, taking another bite of jammy toast. Before anything could be said Mr Venigni bustled over, brandishing a tape measure.

“ Scusami Pinocchio, I need to take some measurements for the gauntlet and shoulder strapping.”

Eugenie tuned them out as Mr Venigni ushered Pinocchio across into his own workspace, gesturing as he explained the necessity of the straps.

Finally finishing the last of the toast she took a quick drink then stood, noticing Gemini was perched on the edge of the table.

He almost appeared to be listening, antennae up and pointing at the closed courtyard doors. Maybe that was normal behaviour for him? Or maybe he just wasn’t used to spending so much time outside his lamp. Anyway, that reminded her…

“Thanks for reminding me Gemini, Pinocchio wanted to practise out there so I need to fetch the keys.”

Getting to her feet she rooted about in her ‘important objects’ drawer, fishing out the spare set of keys Polendina had given her. Gemini chirped insistently behind her but she didn’t take much notice, sorting through the keys as she walked to the double doors. After the attack all the exterior doors (and those leading to outdoor spaces) had been locked as a precaution.

Finding the right key she unlocked the ornate double doors, pulling one of them open. The angle of the sun cast some of the courtyard in shade but she could see well enough to tell something was off.

Leaning out a bit she glanced around, one hand on the edge of the still closed door. That’s strange, where’s the pu…

Something moved in the corner of her vision, quick and jerky and she flinched back, turning just as a line of fire slashed high across her arm and chest. A startled shriek escaped her, a blur of dirty white and green filling her vision before impact.

Wood splintered, the breath left her lungs in a strangled wheeze and she fell, grasping puppet hands and writhing dark flesh bearing down on her.

“Eugenie!”

Chapter Text

Leaning out a bit she glanced around, one hand on the edge of the still closed door. That’s strange, where’s the pu…

Something moved in the corner of her vision, quick and jerky and she flinched back, turning just as a line of fire slashed high across her arm and chest. A startled shriek escaped her, a blur of dirty white and green filling her vision before impact.

Wood splintered, the breath left her lungs in a strangled wheeze and she fell, grasping puppet hands and writhing dark flesh bearing down on her.

“Eugenie!”

~~~

Trying on the puppet string gauntlet was an odd experience for Pinocchio. He knew it wasn’t his arm anymore, but sliding his ‘new’ arm into the metal and leather glove was a strange sensation. It looked off in a way he couldn’t quite describe, seeing brown leather at the knuckles and wrist instead of gears and smooth metal joints. At least the deadened sensation of touch was close to normal, he’d never had any pain sensations in his legion arms, just basic pressure sense.

“So you see here without the harness you’d risk losing the gauntlet if the harpoon got stuck or too great a force was exerted on it. It could be wrenched off or the underlying leather could rip, which is no use if you’re climbing buildings or fighting those ‘carcasses’ you described. However as a last resort there is a quick release for the harpoon cable, just under the main mounting here.”

Venigni pointed out a small latch on the underside of the housing, where the main casing met the cable spool.

“Flick that if the cable gets stuck or snarled on anything and it will detach, so you don’t get trapped in a situation you can’t manoeuvre in. The launch mechanism is fitted in the gauntlet here, just at the base of your palm. It shouldn’t be particularly sensitive, you’ll have to press it hard to trigger the harpoon but I can adjust that once you test it if need be.”

The man tightened the little leather buckles on the underside of the gauntlet, adjusting it to fit more snugly on Pinocchio’s arm. He then produced an armful of leather straps, pointing out the D rings hanging from the cuff of the gauntlet.

“This is where the harness attaches, it’s to redistribute the force exerted on your shoulder and elbow so nothing like a dislocation can happen… admittedly I don’t know if you’ve ever suffered from such an injury in the past, but with how you’ve changed I decided to treat it as a possibility.”

Pinocchio started to nod and almost mentioned how unpleasant shoulder injuries were but held his tongue at the last second. No one at the hotel was aware of how much he’d been hurt, or the times he’d actually been destroyed… only to have Sophia drag him back to the nearest stargazer, whole but wracked by phantom pain. That he could also use the stargazers to heal (at least before he changed) was a secret he was dead set on keeping. He didn’t want anyone to find out how close he’d come to failing them, how he wasn’t as strong or capable as they thought he was. He couldn’t face their disappointment, not when they were the reason he braved the horrors in the first place. Yes at first it had been at Geppetto’s instruction but for a long time now, he did it to keep the people in the hotel safe, as well as the handful of survivors he’d met and kept visiting.

Venigni seemed to catch his aborted nod and paused, as though debating whether to ask. Thankfully he didn’t, continuing with his explanation though he did look… briefly concerned. He sorted through the straps until he held it by the ‘shoulders’, displaying the roughly H shaped conglomeration of leather and metal.

“So you see, the straps fit around your chest and back as a form of harness. You can just slip it on like a waistcoat and it buckles up the front, with extra points for tightening here and here. Ideally it would have some extra panelling here at both sides so the straps wouldn’t dig in and a proper shoulder pad for extra cushioning. Sadly we don’t have enough good leather for that, so it shall have to wait for a later iteration.”

The man held out the tangle of leather in clear invitation to try on, so Pinocchio did, sliding his right arm into it first and Venigni helped sort the strapping for his left. Connecting the harness to the D rings, Venigni fastened the double strap that kept the thinner ones connected to the gauntlet evenly spaced out and untangled, tightening it around his bicep until it was snug.

“It’s fortunate you’re not wearing a coat today compagno, this sort of harness really needs to be under the outerwear like that as it needs a close fit. It’s fine for now going on top of your waistcoat, as this is only a fit check but ideally having it under everything but the shirt is best.”

The inventor spent a minute fussing about the buckles, tightening and adjusting until he was satisfied with the fit.

“There we are, a decent enough fit for a first attempt. I’ll need any of the other arms you wish me to convert into gauntlets. I still need to work out the best way to insulate against the fulminis’ charge but I have the basis worked out for an altered, if bulkier flamberge. Aegis should also be simple enough to convert, though the explosive component might need a little tweaking. Falcon eyes will need reworking from the ground up though, with…”

Pinocchio really didn’t like interrupting but Venigni should know about flamberge…

“I can’t give you flamberge.”

The inventor stopped mid word and gave Pinocchio a quizzical look, clearly waiting for an explanation.

“I was wearing it when… everything happened on the isle. I don’t know what happened to it, whether it was destroyed or...”

Venigni’s face lightened with understanding and he started to reply but something caught Pinocchio’s attention, making him turn away from the inventor. Gemini was chirping loudly on Eugenie’s table, hopping almost urgently in place. His eyes flicked from the cricket to the door she had just opened then widened in understanding. He didn’t stop to question how an enemy could be in the hotel now, so he was already moving when she screamed, when the distinctive shape of an infected puppet blew the doors open and sent her tumbling to the ground under it.

It was the strangest sensation, everything slowing down to a crawl as something inside, something new and strange yet undeniably still him reared its head and shrieked in denial.

He lunged across the remaining space, not even aware he shouted as his hand flew to the hunting knife at his waist. There was no room to use the Dancer’s blade, not when the puppet was on top of her, hands tearing at her apron and writhing tendrils reaching for her neck.

One step, two and he was there, leaving the knife sheathed for now as his hands seized the puppet at collar and wrist and hauled it away. The slimy tendrils sticking out from the neck of the puppet lashed at his right arm, small barbed tips already cutting at cloth and skin before he threw it back out the doors. It landed with a crash of metal and cracking porcelain, white pieces flying away even as it scrabbled to right itself with madly twitching fingers.

He couldn’t spare more than the tiniest glance at Eugenie, even legless infected puppets were stupidly fast but from what he saw…

There was blood blooming slowly across her chest, that distinctive saturated red that haunted him from the first moment he saw it, seeping into her torn blouse with a splotch growing on her arm too.

The sight made the voiceless cry even louder, a swell of burning pressure in his chest as his vision seemed to sharpen. He couldn’t quite put a name to this feeling, so much stronger than the anger he’d felt before. A thundering drumbeat pounded in his ears. Anger wasn’t foreign to him, he’d felt the cool burn of it as he took down the black rabbits and killed Parrot. This pull to violence though, the desire to tear the puppet apart and remove the threat was something almost completely new. If he’d thought back, he’d have realised he’d felt a similar stirring yesterday, though it hadn't felt quite this… raw… this instinctive.

The puppet torso shot a barbed tentacle at him and his attention snapped to it, every detail of its slimy flesh and battered exterior crystal clear. The Dancer’s blade flashed out and severed the ropey flesh in a spatter of acidic fluid as he ducked out of the way. The puppet’s voice box spat sparks and screeched like a broken radio, red eyes fixed on him despite the way the head hung lopsidedly from the neck joint.

Despite the fact that it looked like the puppet was still functional he knew that wasn’t the case. The core of infected puppets was nothing but a mass of flesh, ergo swallowed up and likely little more than dissolving fragments by now. Unlike human or animal based Carcasses, which were warped and twisted by the alchemist’s ‘cure’ into ergo and flesh hungry monsters, infected puppets were different. Their ‘infection’ was more parasitic, pieces of the always moving tendrils that eventually grew from Carcass bodies, torn away in fights and getting into the inner workings of the puppet.

Those pieces, once detached from their source could crawl far enough looking for fresh ergo and puppets were a perfect source. Once it found ergo the little wriggly parasite grew explosively fast, consuming the core of the puppet and growing all through the frame until it had the uncanny ability to control that frame, even seemingly powering some of the systems, using it to move and hunt until it (presumably) outgrew it.

The puppet dug its fingers into the stone and charged, frantically clawing its way towards him while tendrils dragged behind it, a tangled mess of wires and flesh where the hips and legs would be were it whole. He skipped back once, twice, three times, leading it steadily away from the doors into the hotel. A neat sidestep avoided its clumsy leap and it released another staticky screech as his blade impacted its chest midair, white fragments and sparks flying as damascus steel shattered porcelain and deeply scored the underlying metal. The strike reversed the puppet’s momentum and it fell on its back, tentacles erupting from every gap and lashing madly as it tried to right itself. He wasn’t quite far enough away and a stinging pain erupted in his calf, the sharp, barbed tip of one tentacle striking his leg and slicing through leather and wool to reach the skin beneath.

He hopped back further before it could coil around his leg, ignoring the familiar seeping warmth of spilt ergo, slicing through more questing tentacles as the puppet righted itself. Acidic blood dripped from the severed ends, the puppet once again gathering itself to leap. Again he dodged and slammed it down, blade carving a deeper furrow in the metal even as the chest plate started to cave in. That should be enough.

Keeping well back as it flailed, he wished that he’d kept even one thermite jar in his belt pouch, instead of putting the spares in the ceramic lined safe in his suite. Fire was the only way to ensure that parasites and Carcasses were dead, and his makeshift thermite canisters were perfect for burning right through metal to reach the parasite within. At least there was only one, he’d seen the detached head of the other, armless puppet poking out of one of the hedges. This one must have torn out the ergo of the other, ripping the head off in the process.

Once the puppet had righted itself it actually tried a different tactic, charging at his legs and swiping with sharpened metal fingers. Oh, he wasn’t having that.

Before, he’d have continued dodging around it, looking for an opening or a weak point to strike. Now however he just reacted, sidestepping the swipe, dropping the blade and pouncing. Foot slamming squarely onto its back in a crunch of cracking porcelain, he seized one arm with both of his hands and squeezed, twisting and pulling in a way that would do little if he were just human. The thin metal covering crumpled in his grip, the horrible squeal of tearing metal filling the air as he ripped the arm right out of its socket, acid dripping from the torn flesh of the parasite that had been wound through the limb.

A sense of visceral satisfaction filled him when the parasitised puppet squealed and he tossed the arm aside. Taking advantage of the fact that it seemed stunned, he lifted his foot and kicked it onto its back. Pulling the tyrant’s dagger he leaned forward to plunge it down. Before he could though, something made the back of his neck prickle, an immediate sense of danger, move!

He wasn’t quite fast enough when he twisted away, a harpoon tipped rope of flesh thudding into his upper back, the impact and burst of pain forcing a gasp from parted lips. He still managed to duck under the second infected puppet as it flew through the space he’d just occupied, biting back a pained noise when the barb ripped free and wet heat spread under his shirt.

Oh no, he was not dealing with two at once.

Ignoring the throbbing in his back he lunged towards the one armed puppet, still on its back with damaged chestplate exposed. Dagger limned with the faintest suggestion of blue, as though the ergo imbued in the steel was reacting to his intent he slammed the blade down.

It tore through the damaged metal like it wasn’t there, severing brass pipes with a screech of metal on metal and crushing the infested heart of the puppet. The torso spasmed and went limp, any cohesion in the movement of the still twitching tendrils gone. The dagger was streaked with foetid blue-green blood when he jerked it free, spinning to get eyes on the other puppet. It was lifting up for another harpoon shot, green-black flesh spilling out of the empty arm sockets to prop it up, neck hole full of tightly coiled tentacles.

Pinocchio had a harpoon of his own though and in a single fluid motion he lifted his arm and fired, the three inch long steel arrowhead sinking unerringly into the putrid green flesh at its neck. A twitch of his hand had the cable retracting with force, jerking the puppet torso forward even as the arrowhead tore free in a spurt of blue-green blood. The head thunked back into place as the cable rewound, the recoil jerking at his shoulder with more force than he was expecting. Pieces of brass tinkled to the ground when the puppet crashed at his feet, dislodged by the harpoon.

Before it could recover he crouched, dropped the dagger and snatched up the Dancer’s blade, angled to account for the curve and rammed it point first into the neck hole, feeling when it pierced metal rather than flesh. The parasite didn’t make a sound, just shivered and stilled as he pulled the blade from the now shredded innards of the puppet.

Another jab with the sword just to be sure and he pulled it free, blue-green fluid dripping off the blade.

It was only now, while he scanned the courtyard and eyed the puppets for any sign of movement that he noticed he was breathing heavily. The air chilled his throat and made the silence all the more noticeable, the only sounds in the courtyard his shaky breathing and the thundering pulse under his skin, throbbing in his head and chest as a subtle tremble ran through his limbs.

Both sword and puppet string dripped putrid blood and he flicked the blade sharply to remove the excess. Nothing else moved and he released a breath, turning and jogging back to the doorway. The puppet string had small shreds of flesh stuck in the barbs so he put the Dancer’s blade down and hurriedly tried to undo the buckles, eyes flicking between it and the little huddle further inside, Venigni hovering worriedly while Pulccinella spoke quietly to Eugenie.

The inventor looked up and saw him in the doorway, striding over and reaching to help with the buckles. His face was pale and his eyes kept flicking to the various spatters dotting Pinocchio’s clothes. The gauntlet came loose and Pinocchio stripped it off, stilling the tremble in his hands with effort. His back was really starting to throb, the shirt sticking and irritating the puncture.

He caught himself reaching for a pulse cell before he remembered that he didn’t have any. Hell, he knew the concentrated ergo wouldn’t deaden pain any more which could be… quite a problem now the thought occurred to him.

He turned a little to set down the gauntlet and heard Venigni’s sharp intake of breath. If the man had been pale before he was ghostly white now, staring with an expression Pinocchio once again couldn’t place the emotions of.

“Mio dio…”

As though his own words startled him the man shook himself before reaching to usher Pinocchio inside, eyes troubled and lips a thin line.

“Come inside and sit down, you need tending to. Perhaps I should have but I wasn’t expecting…”

He looked troubled, gloved hands hovering uncertainly before clenching and lowering.

“The harness needs to come off, but you need to sit down first. I am… not well versed in medical practices but that… your back surely needs seeing to. I don’t know what you used for… leaks or injuries in the past but I doubt it will suffice now.”

More than a little confused on why the man was seemingly overreacting over a relatively minor wound, he still tried not to show it. It wouldn’t be helpful, not when he needed to think of a way to heal this. Maybe the stargazer? He always felt better after absorbing some of the airborne ergo, though he was never sure if it was Sophia’s doing or not…

A hand on his shoulder pulled him from his thoughts, the inventor looking at him with a serious expression.

“I don’t think you quite grasp what I’m saying. Pinocchio, you’re bleeding. Not oil, not ergo, blood.”  

Venigni nodded down at his right arm and he lifted it to look, thoughts stalling abruptly as he stared. Amongst the blue-green spatters from the parasites was a different colour, brighter, richer in hue.

His mind was blank as he slowly reached for his sleeve, pushing it up to bunch at his elbow and ignoring the sting as stuck fabric came free from the small injuries underneath. Scattered across his forearm was a good half dozen or more cuts, each little wound oozing sluggishly. The bright, saturated red smeared across his skin, rather than luminous blue was something he’d have said was an impossibility before.

He pressed his fingers to a cut, watching as more sanguine fluid bubbled up, vibrant red but with a distinct blue shimmer when it caught the light. Mouth feeling very dry and an odd skip-flutter in his chest, he couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away from the… fluid leaking from his arm.

He didn’t know why this was striking him so hard, this… colour change instead of all the other things he was trying very hard not to think about. The silvery, uneven starburst covering the P-Organ access hatch, the way his balance was oh so slightly off, the greater sensitivity of his skin or the way his joints felt so fluid and wobbly all the time. The arm. Even the way he breathed felt different now, whole chest expanding and filling with air, something he could think about and change instead of the automatic suction in and push out he never gave a second thought before.

He was only half aware of the man taking his elbow and leading him across to where Eugenie was sitting, the towel Pulcinella always carried pressed to her chest.

More red oozed up where he’d poked, an unpleasant churning, almost like nausea gripping his stomach as the blood dribbled down the side of his arm. The voices around him turned to radio static in his ears as he felt it slide and watched as it dripped to the floor. A similar red smear leaking from the torn leather of his boot caught his eyes and abruptly his chest (already oddly tight, like he couldn’t quite get enough air) seemed to constrict. His breathing, which had already been a bit… shallower, faster than normal stuttered and the tremble in his legs ballooned into full grown weakness.

Between one blink and the next he was sitting on the floor, lightheaded as he struggled to get a full breath of air. He didn’t know what was happening, his thoughts a confused mess as he tried and failed to control these alien reactions.

He knew someone was talking, but it might as well have been garbled puppet speech for all the sense it made. … His hands were cold, tingly and trembling as the blood smearing his skin blurred. There was someone touching him, raised voices that made him cringe even as his head swam and the steel band around his chest tightened.

It seemed to go on forever before a golden flame bloomed into being inches from his face. He couldn’t help but focus on it, eyes dragged away from the red (it shouldn’t be red, red was from people, when he wasn’t…) painting his arm. Staring at the bright little flame was oddly… grounding, the loud voices all faded away but for a single, steady murmur that slowly resolved into intelligible words.

“...it, just focus on the flame, focus on my words. Now we’re going to get that harness off, nice and easy. Keep watching the flame, that’s it. Just take some slow, deep breaths for me.”

There were gentle touches, tugging at his side and the tightness eased a little. Something was tugged off his shoulder, his arm pulled through a loop and his eyes drifted to look. The voice and the sharp click of snapping fingers dragged him back though.

“Just stay focused on me, not anything else. Deep breaths, nice and slow now. Follow how I’m doing it Pinocchio, can I take your hand and show you? … that’s good, just follow my lead.”

Still struggling against the confusing foreignness of these feelings, nauseous and cold and… maybe just a tiny bit scared, he watched and tried to follow along as (blonde hair, green eyes… Belle?) the woman took his hand and held it to her chest, tried to copy the smooth rise and fall he felt even as his own skipped and stuttered. He didn’t know how long it took to do but eventually his head started to clear, the band easing as his breathing steadied into a rough facsimile of hers. The feel of the slow, calm beat under his palm also seemed to help, the sense of her ergo as steady and strong as a lighthouse in rough seas despite the undercurrent of deep sadness.

“... and breathe in, now hold it for 1, 2, 3 and let it out nice and slow, that’s it.”

The flame extinguished as metal snapped closed, the vaguely rectangular shape slipped back into a pocket as Belle continued speaking.

“Now, you just keep breathing like we were doing. I can see you’re confused about what just happened, but that’s normal. You’re having a panic attack but it will pass. Just focus on me and breathe slowly, okay?”

Clinging to the sense of stability she was giving right now, he was vaguely aware of nodding this time, still lightheaded enough that the action made his head swim. Panic… attack? What was that? He could only remember the puppets, the… the red…  

Almost as soon as the thought drifted free of the confused morasse in his mind, his stomach twisted with fresh nausea, back throbbing when he shuddered.

“Pinocchio, I know you aren’t feeling your best right now, panic attacks play merry hell with your body at the best of times, they’re never something to make light of. You were hurt before this though and I have medical training, would you let me look and see if I can help… repair these wounds?”

Repair? Did that mean he’d have to sit in the Chair? But… the magnets would make his back worse… Flicker-flash memories played behind his eyes, of being anchored in place as Father tinkered with quartz or poked at his internals, chest open and skin beading blue at the edges where he had to use the scalpel. In the background was the constant hum of the magnets, solid points of bruised pain on legs, back and arms.

“No mio amico, you don’t need to sit in the chair for this. You never need to sit in the chair again.”

Venigni? When did… Had he spoken aloud instead of thinking? The man looked pale, hat, coat and gloves gone, sleeves rolled up to the elbows as he knelt there with a complicated expression on his face. There were bowls of hot water beside him, clean cloths and rolls of… fabric, gauze? There was also a dark glass jar,  a metal tin, stocky glass bottle and a small dish with something dark orange in it. Behind the man he caught a flash of Eugenie huddled in one of the chairs that must have been taken from the reading room, a tassel edged throw wrapped tight around her shoulders before he had to close his eyes and breathe through the dizziness.

The beat in his chest was still skip-fluttering oddly, breath wanting to slide back into the fast and shallow pattern of before as his head swam and the tremble in his limbs wouldn’t stop. His eyes prickled behind closed lids, frustration and something he didn’t want to name as fear but couldn’t quite deny winching the band around his chest that little bit tighter again.

“I…don’t like this… I don’t know what’s happening…”

Oh, he’d spoken again, mouth so dry it was sticky when he swallowed. He thought he heard Venigni make an odd, indistinct sound but then Belle was speaking again, still holding his hand.

“I know, I know you feel awful right now but I’m here to help, in any way I can. If you just want to sit for longer we can do that. If you feel up to it though, I’d really like to clean and bandage those wounds, then we can get you warmed up with a blanket by the fire, or get you in bed to rest. You’ll feel better when it’s all done, I swear.”

She rubbed the back of his hand gently before continuing and he just breathed and listened, focused on her steady calm presence.

“To do this properly I’m afraid your waistcoat and shirt needs to come off, I need to see your back. Is that okay?”

He… wasn’t sure if he could manage the buttons like this, but after a moment’s sluggish thought he gave a small, cautious nod, reaching up with his spare hand to fumble shakily at the waistcoat.

“It’s alright Pinocchio, we can do that. You just focus on your breathing.”

The next thing he knew there were fingers swiftly unbuttoning his clothes, sliding the waistcoat off and peeling back the shirt, the fabric sticking unpleasantly to the wound. He didn’t notice the brief pause when his shirt was first undone, silvery starburst on his chest on full display, the knotted handspan scar demonstrative of the exceptionally violent act that created it.

“Alright, I’m going to see to your arm first, if you want to watch what I’m doing. I’ll be washing, cleaning and dressing it, which will sting as we only have tincture of iodine for this. Just say if you want me to pause, if you need a moment.”

Despite not wanting to look, to see the red that reminded him of all the things wrong with him he forced his eyes open and pushed past the lurch of nausea at the sight. He watched as Belle held his wrist with one hand and with the other used a hot, wet cloth to wipe away the smears of drying blood. Cotton wool dipped in the burnt orange fluid was next, stinging horribly as she carefully went over each small cut. It wasn’t pleasant by any means, he couldn’t hold back the small hiss or flinch at the first stab of pain.

The metal tin was next, the lid unscrewed to reveal a thick pink ointment with a strong, heady smell. A small amount was scooped out and spread thinly over the cuts, dulling the stinging within seconds before a layer of gauze was placed on top. Lastly was one of the small rolls of fabric, wound carefully around his arm until she tied it off. The whole time Belle was narrating her actions, explaining that the iodine was for thorough cleaning, the ointment to prevent infection and the gauze and bandage for protection.

It was… actually rather nice, this type of repair. It may have still hurt but it was… warmer, kinder than Father’s silence or impersonal reminders to be a ‘good boy’ while he worked. It left him feeling cared for, kindled an odd longing deep inside that he didn’t have a name for. Belle’s hands were warm, like Eugenie and Venigni’s yesterday. Everyone seemed to have warm hands… except Father, gloves a constant barrier with barely a trace of heat radiating through them.

Belle distracted him from his thoughts, smoothing the edge of the neatly wrapped bandage and squeezing his hand reassuringly.

“Right, I’m going to see to your back now, so I’ll be behind you this time. This might be a bit more painful, I don’t know how bad it is until I get a look, but I suspect you might need a few stitches. These would only go just through the skin and no more, holding the edge of the cut closed to help it heal. I‘m sorry I don't have anything to numb it properly but I promise I’ll only use stitches if I think they’re absolutely necessary. I could try using ice to numb your back but you’re cold enough already, I don’t think it would be a good idea so I’ll get this done as quickly as possible.”

She looked him in the eye for the whole explanation, holding his hand with a firm, steady grip. The sincerity in her voice was reassuring, the honesty and concern in her gaze almost as discomfiting as it was warming, especially compared to Father’s usual treatment.

“Venigni is fetching a footstool for you to lean on, to give me a better angle, alright? We’ve also got some nice thick blankets for you as soon as I’m done, then we'll get you warmed up by the fire and a nice hot drink.”

That did sound nice, even if he just wanted to curl up in his room and wait until it all went away. He didn’t think he could walk upstairs though, his legs still felt weak and wobbly. Pinocchio closed his eyes for just a moment, a brief wave of vertigo making everything sway alarmingly… but when he opened them again Belle was gone and in her place was a big cream velvet footstool, Venigni crouched on the other side and holding both his hands. When had…?

The man gave him a subdued little smile, the look of concern a mirror to Belle’s a moment ago.

“There you are compagno, you had us worried you might faint for a minute! Come, lean on this and make yourself comfy while the Lady works. When she’s done we’ll see about warming up these cold hands.”

So saying Venigni released one of his hands, patted the footstool encouragingly then gave his other hand a brisk but gentle rub. After a moment of being thoroughly confused at how everything had jumped forward like that, he realised the sound he could hear behind him was the splash of a cloth being wrung out. He leaned forward on the footstool, planting his elbows on the fabric but quickly slumped down to hide his face in his unbandaged arm. The low level nausea was persistent, as were the cold shivers he was trying to suppress.

The tail of his tied back hair was draped over his shoulder, the ends a streaky red and sticking to his skin. Closing his eyes he did his best to ignore it. Almost as an afterthought, he noted that his breathing was a little easier to keep steady and slow now, even if he was still lightheaded, thoughts muzzy despite how he tried to focus.

Belle was speaking again, a hot cloth wiping over his back as he listened, not so much to the actual words but more the steady, soothing cadence of her voice. His back stung as more water washed out his wound, sore but he did his best to ignore it. Venigni still held his right hand, the inventor’s own warm and rough in a similar way to Eugenie’s. They were larger though, both hands able to envelop his smaller one and a half formed thought bubbled up, wondering if Father’s would feel anything similar if he…

“Alright, I’ve flushed it out thoroughly, now I’m just going to use a little iodine, then apply some pressure for a few minutes.”

His back burned with pain at the first touch, worse than his arm and he couldn’t help trying to flinch away as his head snapped up, eyes flying open. A little whining gasp escaped before he froze, half expecting to hear a reprimand from Father as everything spun somewhat sickeningly.

“It’s okay Pinocchio, I know it hurts, I do. I… I won’t take long to finish but I do need to finish. Can you count to 100 for me? Out loud or in your head is fine, just try to let me know when you’re done.”

After a long moment he realised Belle was waiting for his reply so he forced a small nod, breathing through his nose as he tried to relax while Venigni was a silent but concerned presence opposite. He started to count quietly but quickly lost his place in moments after the burning started up again. He dropped his forehead to the soft velvet and focused on breathing, holding back the sounds that wanted to emerge with every touch to his back.

Why was it so difficult to deal with this? He might as well be wading through thick mud with how taxing it was just to think. The persistent chill plaguing him, nausea, weakness… He wasn’t made to be weak, not when he was a puppet!

…

Was this what it was like to be…?

He pushed it away, let that half formed thought drown in the morass choking his mind. Like water in a leaky bucket, he could feel his energy just draining away, but he didn’t know how to make it stop…

This… it was frightening to be like this, thoughts confused and slow, body doing things, feeling things he didn’t understand. Everything was different, he was different and he didn’t know how to deal with it. His eyes prickled behind closed eyelids as he tried to stay still, frustration and tiredness welling up in equal measure.

There was a steady, if painful pressure on his back now as the burning faded away. Part of him wondered why it was necessary but the larger part was just too tired and cold to care. His skin was doing something odd now too, tiny bumps raised all across his unbandaged forearm and the fine hairs standing erect. He’d realised it felt strange only after a cold breeze danced across his damp back, triggering a full body shiver. It felt like a chore now just to lift his head enough to look, everything gone heavy and syrupy slow in what felt like only moments.

“Pinocchio? I need to do some stitches now, I promise I’ll be as quick as possible. I just need you to stay very still for me. I know it will hurt and I wish you didn’t need them, but this is too big to leave open. Venigni is right there and you can ask me questions at any time.”

She didn’t ask or give him a warning when she started, the remarkably painful prick-push-drag of the first puncture happening when she was in the middle of a sentence. It was actually worse than the previous burning, the slide of needle and suture through inflamed skin a horribly sharp, immediate thing.

Dully, he was aware of Venigni still holding his hand, ergo signature a conflicted mess of :worry/protective/angry/sad:. He wasn’t sure how long it went on for, or if he made any noises as things faded out around the edges. Humming, gentle and familiar teased sweetly of rest in the back of his mind and slowly blotted the other noises out. A hand, slim and feminine and insubstantial as a puff of steam carded through his hair, pleasantly warm tingles left in its wake. The firm velvet footstool faded for a moment to the feel of a soft, warm presence, a hand cupping his cheek and brushing below his closed eye.

Caught between dream and reality he was barely aware of wrapping bandages, the drape of a thick fire warmed blanket tucked around his shoulders. Hands, mechanical and flesh pulling him to his feet before he was lifted, moved somewhere warm. Boots, socks and trousers stripped off, more water and bandages for the cuts hidden below his boot. Damp hair where red was cleaned away, incessant cajoling to get him to drink hot, faintly salty fluid before he finally sank into piled softness and everything faded away.

~~~

Pouring out the last of the bloody water, Belle filled the basin with fresh cold water, setting it down and dumping the remaining (far too many in her opinion) blood stained washcloths in to soak. The semicircular suture needle still needed an alcohol soak but for now it sat in freshly boiled water. She scrubbed her hands free of any blood, finding a few traces of soot caught under her nails from burning the parasitised puppets. She’d spent long enough surviving Krat outside the hotel to know how hard it was to permanently kill those things, she wasn’t taking any chances.

Finally finished, she left the kitchen with a nod to the distinctively styled butler puppet as he passed her with a bucket and mop. Her leg ached as she walked back to the small twin room both her ‘patients’ were currently occupying. This was not how she’d foreseen her day going when she woke up this morning.

Entering the room (a repurposed guest room, one of the cheaper ones just a corridor away from the kitchens) the temperature difference was obvious. The fire was blazing in the hearth, the warmth at just the level to make you sleepy without being uncomfortable. The heavy winter curtains were closed to help retain that little bit more heat and block out the sun, the firelight making the brass bedknobs gleam like gold. The ‘Prince of Krat’ was standing by the door, face unreadable and eyes hooded as he watched the leftmost bed. In the other it seemed like Eugenie had dropped off too, the stress likely as exhausting as the actual injury.

Sleep could only do them both some good, the girl had put on a brave face when her own wound was cleaned and bandaged, (thankfully only a very shallow, if long surface injury) however she’d been pale as a ghost after Belle had finished treating Pinocchio.

“When did Eugenie drop off?”

She kept her voice to a low murmur, leaning back against the closed door and taking some of the weight off her sore leg.

“About 20 minutes after you left. She managed to finish that drink at least, even if she needed a bit of encouragement.”

“A little sugar, salt and lemon juice in a drink is always good after injury or illness. I imagine Pinocchio will need a fair bit more than that though, if he needs to eat now and hasn’t for the past day and a half.”

Belle fought the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose, well aware of how impossible the current situation was with the now seemingly former puppet. Before all this she’d have laughed or called it madness to suggest such a thing was ever possible. Now, she knew very well such things were much more malleable than she’d believed previously.

If nothing else, the bleeding she’d had to stem from the ragged three inch tear over his right shoulder blade; the red, living flesh that she’d had to stitch up while he flinched and trembled would have convinced her of this new reality. He breathed, he bled, he had a panic attack on seeing his own blood…

“I’ll need to check the kitchen, see what we have that’s suitably gentle on the stomach…”

She let the sentence trail off, quietly crossing the room to briefly touch the back of her hand to Eugenie’s forehead, the girl flat on her back and fast asleep. In the other bed Pinocchio was equally out like a light, lying on his left side and half curled up, hair swept above the pillow and breathing softly. He didn’t so much as twitch when she checked his forehead, right hand tucked under his chin, the edge of the bandage visible where the duvet had slipped down.

Belle didn’t know for sure how old he was ‘designed’ to look but right at that moment, he looked painfully young, face all soft, youthful curves and a faint smattering of freckles. The sight stirred something she’d thought long buried, an old aching scar that had her adjusting the cover and brushing a strand of hair away from the corner of his eye.

Pulling away, she walked to the attached sitting room door just at the end of Eugenie’s bed, motioning for the inventor to join her. The room was small, decorated in pale colours to make it seem larger than it actually was, the pale winter sunshine slanting in the window as the sun began to creep below the horizon. The wallpaper was a soft cream, patterned with curling ferns, pink tinted lily flowers and blue butterflies flitting in the empty spaces. The furniture was golden satinwood, the fabric on cushion and padded backs a warm white with more curling plantlife neatly embroidered in pale yellow, pink and green thread.

Belle sank somewhat gratefully into the plush sofa, peeling off her boot and resting the sore leg along the seat cushion. The tired looking man sat down opposite, still sans coat, cufflinks missing and cravat askew. He looked a far cry from his usually impeccably dressed self, shoulders drooping from an unseen weight. She’d bet real money it had a good deal to do with that boy out there, she had more than enough experience to recognise guilt when she saw it.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if Pinocchio slept the whole day after that, he was dissociating quite badly there… which is understandable even with what little you told me about the circumstances.”

She ended that sentence on a higher note, making it less a statement and more a subtly implied question. It took the man a moment to collect his thoughts but slowly a more detailed story unfolded, barring a few places of slight hesitation, glances at the slightly open door and a glossing over of points she guessed were more important than they seemed. By the end she was torn between anger, incredulity and resignation (at this point disbelief didn’t have a leg to stand on). There was one thing she had to ask though, something that stuck out from when the inventor spoke about the early days, just after Pinocchio appeared at the hotel.

“How… do you know how old he is, how long he’s been ‘awake’ I mean? You mentioned how much he’s grown,,.?”

Venigni slowly sat up straight, looking more like he was taking a walk to the hangman’s noose than answering a simple question. Needless to say, it didn’t do anything to reassure her.

“Ah yes, your astuteness does you credit, something I have decidedly failed at these past weeks…”

His shoulders bowed under the invisible weight, his next words less self-deprecating and more outright flagellation, fingers white knuckled as he wrung his hands.

“Pinocchio, by my reckoning, is five weeks and six days old. He woke up in a deserted train carriage, found a discarded Monad lamp and made his way to the hotel based solely on Gemini’s word. He had no other guidance, nothing left by Geppetto telling him his purpose. From the moment I met him I could see he was different, yet I focused on all the wrong things, not on the bright, curious mind soaking in everything he could learn. He barely spoke to start with, always quiet and watchful but whenever he did it was almost always a question. Just like…”

Belle didn’t quite have words for the vaguely sick feeling now bubbling in her chest, finishing the man’s sentence with a quiet, horror tinged voice.

“... like a child. He’s a child and he’s been…”

“Yes. I call myself a genius but I’m as blind as Giuseppe. He’s had an awakened ego, been a person right from the start and only Antonia saw him for what he really was, gave him the sort of care he should have had. I have no excuse, Pulcinella had an awakened ego since my childhood, all the signs were there… yet I never took a moment to put it all together.”

Venigni took his glasses off with a positively haunted look on his face, polishing them with a cloth he plucked from his pocket. They hung limply in his grip when he closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose with the other hand.

“... when he learned of Antonia’s death, he burst into tears. I’m not even sure he fully understood why he was crying. I don’t think I’ve ever felt quite so wretched as when I realised what I’d overlooked all this time.”

Belle pretended not to notice the slight sheen, the damp spot at the corner of his eye when the inventor donned his glasses again.

“It never should have taken me this long to see it, he was so different… Normally, puppets are programmed with all the information they need to do the tasks they are made for. Those without an awakened ego have a… limited capacity to learn. They certainly don’t improve at anything they can already do with practice. Even those with awakened egos seem to prefer to default to preexisting programming much of the time, learning anything new is slow and depends heavily on what their model… their body is capable of.

Pinocchio was made to fight, but I’ve lost count of the things he’s learned in these few weeks that have nothing to do with fighting. Reading sheet music, playing the piano, sewing, playing with Spring… All of those were learned through trial and error, he’d hit the wrong keys by mistake, press the wrong foot pedal, just like anyone organically learning. Even collecting those records, he’d spend hours just listening to music if Geppetto let him.”

“Let him?”

“Oh yes, unless he was with Antonia, any time Giuseppe noticed he wasn’t busy he’d be called up to that office and sent out on some errand soon after. Frankly it’s amazing he was able to find the spare time he did to learn, Gi… Geppetto did his best to run him ragged.”

Venigni, already keeping his voice quiet, dropped it further, eyeing the partly open door briefly.

“No puppet I’ve ever seen before has been able to feel pain, I didn’t think it was possible, not after those very early attempts by the Workshop turned out to be catastrophic failures. Seems I was wrong again, missed yet another thing about our young friend that I should have noticed. That… that devil made Pinocchio able to feel pain, yet didn’t build a way to turn it off. I can all too well guess why that Chair in his office is bristling with such strong electromagnets…!”

He cut himself off, breathing deeply for a moment to calm down, fists clenched as impotent fury showed clearly in his face. It took only seconds to feel some of her own, probably reflecting the same sentiment as she fixed the inventor with a look.

“This is the same chair Pinocchio mentioned?”

A terse nod was all the reply she needed, already halfway through pulling her boot on again.

“This almost makes me wish I hadn’t already burned those parasitic carcass pieces…”

She finished lacing it up and stood, Venigni hurriedly standing as well.

“I still have to keep watch over my patients, however I believe you have a chair to dismantle, post haste.”

The man took a moment to process her words before snapping into a horribly sloppy, exaggerated salute before spinning on his heel and (quietly) striding from the small suite.

~~~

Barely lying down in time, Eugenie did her best to stay quiet, unable to stop the leaking tears as Venigni’s words repeated in her head and guilt lay heavy on her chest.

Chapter Text

When Sophia woke in this strange place she was disoriented but… calm. Unnaturally so. She remembered what happened when Pinocchio gave her peace, the sheer relief when the last vestiges of her life were disentangled from her mutilated, corpselike body and the pain finally stopped.  

Curling up within Pinocchio’s ergo, even if only just inside had been an odd feeling, she was more used to cradling it from the outside or reaching in to soothe and meld the foreign ergo into homogeneity with his own. (His ergo had been so, so perilously tiny when she first found him, new and young yet clinging to Carlo’s damaged crystal with enviable tenacity. Coaxing him to take in the tiny piece of her own ergo had been almost instinctive, an immediate desire to aid this fragile new soul.) Though she didn’t have the energy to speak she could still radiate gratitude to him, no fear of coming undone as she slid into exhausted sleep. She knew him too well, and keeping herself separate from other ergo was second nature by now.

It was as she recalled this, the way already hazy memories slid into blankness that she found herself considering her actions, her choices… at least the few she had enough agency to make.

It was only through hindsight, free of pain and clear headed that she realised what an awful, horrible thing she’d asked of him, what it would seem like. She didn’t deserve to have his love, not after that. She knew he loved her, that spark of almost childlike happiness that hummed through him whenever she joined him, a warm presence embracing his ergo when he had the chance to relax in the hotel.

She knew he ‘saw’ her, a visual projection through some quirk of the ergo but she didn’t have that luxury. To her the world was cast in fragmented memories, the ergo currents, islands of calm that were the stargazers and the bright points of living and crystallised souls her only reference. She’d never even seen her Clever One’s face, only knew him through the soothing warmth of his ergo, bright and curious with such childlike innocence…

There were days she had wanted to scream, wanted to shake him and say he shouldn’t trust so freely, so fully, not when he was being used by Geppetto, by her… She could never bring herself to though, bearing the guilt as she comforted and soothed when his Father hurt him with words or that damnable chair, seen in flickers of memory; when she had to rewind his body to a whole, healthy state after each lethal loss against monstrous puppets or carcasses, yet couldn’t stop him suffering through the phantom, leftover pain of a body that still thought itself torn open. He went through more than enough pain, yet she still asked him to release her in the end…

He never deserved the pain she and Geppetto put him through, no excuses could absolve them of that guilt.

Helping him find a name, something he should have had from the beginning was a paltry gift, but it was one of the few things in her power to give. It still made him so happy it left her ashamed she hadn’t done it sooner, the ghostly feeling of tears running down her real body’s face a haunting sensation.

With little else to do, she used that unnatural calm to look at and accept her failings, all the things she could, should have done differently, then tucked them away to inevitably return to later, knowing it would take more than one moment of acceptance to stop them haunting her.

That done, she finally considered her surroundings, the strange place her ergo found itself within. It was… warm yet oddly muffled, the currents and sparks of ergo all but absent save one. She could still feel Pinocchio, but not right there, not surrounding her like a blanket as before. No, he felt… distant, separate as though a pane of glass stood in her way. It was most perplexing, seeing as she should still be tucked within his ergo, not feeling strangely swaddled behind a separating barrier.

Despite being aware she was just ergo, she still tried to move, squirm out of the strange, constricting something containing her.

“Ah ah Little Butterfly, not yet, you can’t come out yet. You can still see your son though…”

The voice reverberated through her, deep with a sibilant edge, leaving a trail of whispers behind it. The tone was mildly scolding but with an… amused undertone, like she used to use on the youngest children at the Charity House. Before she could feel more than the briefest spike of alarm, it was quickly smothered by an irresistible urge to sleep, she was safe and warm so why not sleep?

Unable to even begin fighting the suggestion, her thoughts slid into jumbled, warm nothingness…

Then she was Somewhere Else.

The first thing that struck her… was that she could see. A velvety blanket of stars glittered overhead, an endless night sky bereft of the moon yet somehow all the brighter for it. Silvery light reflected on mirror smooth dark water, broken only by tiny darting ripples made by unseen things beneath the surface.

Other sensations filtered in as she stared up in awe at the stars she hadn’t seen in so, so long. The feel of clean, loose hair tickling her neck, her breath in lungs that didn’t stutter or ache, no longer half petrified and heavy with fluid. The feel of standing on her own two legs, soothingly hot water lapping at bare toes.

Lifting a hand she stared at it, flexed her fingers and marvelled at the realness of something that surely must be a dream. She looked down, stroked the dark velvet covering her legs, something she’d never seen before and was a world away from the white, pleated dress she’d been stuck in for… too long.

The velvet actually turned out to be a pair of wide leg trousers, just so spacious as to fall in folds imitating a skirt. Her top was a silky silvery looking blouse, tucked neatly into the trousers and everything held close with a dark belt, shiny butterfly shaped buckle glinting in the light.

Feeling a lump building in her throat she reached down, hauled up one trouser leg… and sat down abruptly, staring at the pale, unblemished and most importantly whole leg. She wiggled her toes, reached out with trembling hands… and pinched the top of her foot, hard.

It hurt. It actually hurt.

She swiped at suddenly overflowing eyes, watching the blemish form where she pinched. Hugging her legs to her chest she tried to stop the tears, happiness having given way to confusion and now a slow, creeping dread that this would all vanish, sending her back to the tower, to Simon.

How could this be so real, she remembered dying, leaving her body!

“This could all be real Little Butterfly, if it’s what you Wish.”

That same voice whispered softly in her ear, startling her badly enough that she tripped over her own feet in her rush to leap up. At the same time the water under her feet rolled, a wavelike ripple sending her staggering as blue light pulsed up from below, a deep radiating glow that illuminated a massive, complex tangle of… tree roots perhaps… no, tree roots didn’t pulse. Smaller dark ribbony shapes swam around the great, tangled mass below, those nearest the surface darting up to cause the ripples she’d seen. Whatever they were, the… veins?… seemed to plunge endlessly into the cerulean depths, fading back into the darkness as the light receded.

“Look behind you Little Butterfly, you wanted to see him, didn’t you?”

Spinning as she once again stumbled away from the eerie, bodiless whisper, she stopped dead and stared at the sight that surely hadn’t been there before. A tree rose from the water, the trunk bent and coiling over itself in a spiral. The many, spindly branches stretched heavenward as though in supplication to the stars, reaching wooden hands bare of any leaves. Oily black bark shimmered faintly blue in the light, a tangled mat of roots extending out before plunging below the water’s surface to merge with the uppermost veins.

Nestled, almost cradled in the tangle of roots at the base of the tree was a mass of iridescent blue… and a very familiar ergo presence, tickling the edge of her senses. Before she even realised it she was moving, water giving way to roots under her feet as she nearly tripped in her haste. She didn’t stop though because he was there, fireglow warmth strangely soft and different in a way she couldn’t quite place… but it was her Clever One and something in her chest needed to see him, to know he was alright…

Almost losing her balance more than once on the strangely pliant, spongy roots, she finally fell to her knees before the blue mound, sleek blue feathers (interspaced by the occasional tuft of silvery down) hiding anything that might lie underneath.

Reaching out she hesitated, momentarily unsure… before she rested her hand on what was now obviously a sizable wing, not a feathery blanket or loose pile. The limb twitched at her touch, feathers fluffing as it shifted, just slightly, and revealed a crown of silvery white hair.

Not quite knowing what she was feeling, an odd, breathless anticipation fluttering in her chest, she reached out to grasp the leading edge of the wing, lifting it to reveal the form taking shelter beneath, curled up with his face pillowed on his arm.

Before, she had guessed that Geppetto likely made him to look like Carlo and had imagined curly dark hair, a straight nose and pointed chin, that perpetual slightly sulky look Carlo always wore except when he and Romeo were fighting in the training yard.

He was nothing like him. Save for the base facial structure, she could never mistake him for that boy.

Feeling choked by an intensity of emotion she never expected to feel, she traced his face with her eyes, studying the constellations of freckles spilling across his cheeks and forehead, the one that sneaked onto those cupid bow lips. The way those lips quirked up oh so slightly at the edges instead of down, forehead smooth with no sign of frown lines and the softer set of his jaw, lacking the stubborn edge she saw so much on young Carlo.

Sophia reached out with an unsteady hand, stroked his cheek with tremulous fingers, felt the fine downy hairs no puppet should have. His skin was warm, soft and pliant as she cupped his face, brushed long silvery hair back and tucked it behind the perfect shell of his ear.

“Hello Clever One… Pinocchio. It’s… so good to see you.”

Throat tight and vision blurring, she leaned down and kissed his forehead, heart almost hurting from raw relief and… and love.

The voice had been right, she loved him, more strongly than anything she’d felt for the orphans and unfortunates in the Charity House, more even than her own mother, as tormented and sorry a thing as she’d been.

Happy, conflicted tears traced hot lines down her cheeks as she slipped into the hollow beneath the wing, gathered her sleeping boy up as best she could and just held him close, emotions a tumultuous mess as she cried into his hair.

With time, the tears eventually petered out and she just lay there, holding him as he slept on in the warm, shadowed hollow. She wanted to see him awake, wanted to see the colour of his eyes and call him by name, see him smile, laugh and discover the joys of being alive. He was her s… She’d never truly thought about how precious he’d become to her, a fledgeling soul in a remarkable puppet body, and now…

She wasn’t sure how, but she Knew she was seeing the truth of him, that he was a puppet no longer. (This knowledge, it was a foreign thing, a thorn pushed deep so the body healed around it. The certainty needled at her, the wrongness of knowing without learning.) Pinocchio had been remarkable from the start, this tiny, impossibly new soul growing in leaps and bounds, far beyond the aid she gave, changing and becoming… more every time.

He was still as kind as the day he was ‘born’, always thinking of others before himself. Even though his naivete had led to him being hurt, most of all by Geppetto, he still wanted to see the good in people. That he was slowly learning to expect the worst though, to look on people with suspicion… it hurt that she couldn’t protect him from that.

She took a moment then, to actually look at the wing, reaching up to trail her fingers through the soft ergo blue coverts on the underside, the silvery white puffs of down filling places where blue feathers hadn’t yet grown. Combing her fingers through the smallest feathers, smoothing and straightening them seemed to have a soothing effect, Pinocchio giving a soft sigh, lax fingers twitching and curling in the material of her top.

It was strange that he felt it, because only the faintest hint of his ergo reached (barely) into the wing, like sweet pea or morning glory vines just starting to grow and tangle through an empty trellis. Following the shape of it back she found where it connected… and where it split, an unnatural mix of feather, scale and warm, pliant wood. The ‘main’ connecting point of the limb sank into the back of his shoulder, just a bit offset with surprisingly little deformation at the addition of (presumably) an entire new limb joint. Tiny feathers coated the thickset limb, giving way to downy fluff at the base, mixing oddly with smooth skin. Above that, about a foot further up the wing was where the treelike split lay, feather and flesh branching and tangling, strange offshoots melding into rough, supple wood and smooth, flexible scales that trailed away and vanished into the tangled roots that made up the protective hollow.

She didn’t know what to make of it, yet strangely, profoundly sure she was only seeing it because she was here in this strange place… wherever here was.

Pinocchio’s ergo was a steady, comforting presence in her arms, hazy with true sleep and incredibly relaxed when she wrapped him in arms and ergo both. She ran her fingers through his hair, damp and mussed where she’d cried and combed it back into order, finding tiny new points of blue, a perfect match to the soul shaded feathers above them. The wing ruffled, stretched a little and settled back into place, more than big enough to cover them both, head to toe with room to spare.

Part of her wanted to disregard the how and the why, to just enjoy this… miraculous change, this chance for her boy to live and grow without worry of persecution and fear of being discovered as a puppet… but she knew better. Such a tremendous thing would surely have a terrible price, probably with an equally terrible reason…

“And if I said I did it because I wanted to?”

The Voice was back, right in her ear as she flinched, half expecting a hand to peel back the wing. Nothing happened, despite all the hairs prickling on the back of her neck as she peered around the confined space. Was the Voice reading her mind… like Simon? Was this all a trick, had Simon succeeded?!

A sound cut through the silence, making her freeze as the breath stilled in her throat. The slosh of displaced water, the heavy rainfall splatter as it poured off something much too large for comfort. An odd squelching creak sounded, once, twice, three times… then something spattered on the wing above their heads, like stray raindrops on an umbrella.

Something was right there, leaning over their shelter.

“A pessimistic one aren’t you? This is no trick, and the homunculus… he served a better purpose.”

The Voice was calm, a darkly amused tone under those last words that made Sophia clutch Pinocchio all the tighter. Homunculus? Was it implying that Simon…?

Sophia felt no other ergo, yet she knew another being was there, a silent, awful certainty crawling along her nerves on tickling spider legs. Outside, the rasp of something heavy slithered across the ground, the dragging thump of too large footsteps, or maybe some other limb as whatever it was moved. It was right beside them, encircling their little feather covered huddle. As much as she wanted to, she daren’t look, feeling like a little girl hiding under her duvet from the shadow man that lurked outside the window.

The wing above their heads sank slightly, the starlight filtering under the edge of the feathers abruptly cut off. An odd, heavy warmth seemed to penetrate the small space, a deep hum vibrating through wing and bodies alike. Pinocchio remained completely asleep, unnaturally relaxed and oblivious to their surroundings. Sophia wasn’t surprised, she Knew he wouldn’t, couldn’t wake here, not when he was awake somewhere else. (Another thorn of knowledge that made no and yet perfect sense, another itching point of wrongness.)

Still, she was here and she’d do what little she could to protect him, even with no ergo to grasp at and manipulate. Even if the Voice and whatever lurked outside were linked, were one and the same and it had been the source of Pinocchio’s change, she’d be a fool to trust it.

“Hmm, you’re much more wary than our Little One was.”

A movement at the small gap where feathers met ground, where starlight had previously seeped in and cast the shadows in blue. Fingers, a bit too long and oddly proportioned in such a way that her brain refused to focus on, curled gently through the feathers. A low, multi toned croon vibrated through the air and made all the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. The boy in her arms stirred fractionally, a barely there mumble escaping before he turned his face a little more into her chest, small puffs of warm air felt through the cloth as he slept on.

The wing flexed lightly, lifting just enough to show… darkness. Shifting, moving darkness, full of tiny pinprick diamonds that twinkled just like stars in the night sky but subtly off. They were too close, the feeling of being watched prickling down her spine as she turned as best she could to face the unknown, unwrapping one arm from her oblivious boy to prop herself up.

Almost crouched over him protectively, she watched the gap and the fingers with hawklike focus. Out in the darkness all the barely visible ripples of movement stilled… then the dark split. At first, only a thin pale crescent was visible, like the first days after a new moon, hanging like an eerie smile in the black. It stayed like that for a moment, a cheshire grin in palest gold… before the eye snapped open fully, gold igniting like a sun in liquid patterned flame.

As still as a statue she stared, a brief flutter of mounting dread at the size of that lone eye hurriedly quashed. Fear was a luxury she couldn’t afford, not with someone to protect now, and if that meant standing up to whatever had an eye wider than she was tall then so be it. She was already dead, had been functionally so for months, or maybe even years before she found Pinocchio, just stuck and unable to pass away due to Simon’s infernal treatments and alchemical tortures. Even if she had a body in this strange place, it wasn’t a reflection of reality, a sacrifice she’d gladly make for the one good thing still in her life.

The eye stared at her, through her with awful intensity even as she fought the urge to tremble and glared back with all the fearsome potential of a wet kitten. Slowly the eye lidded in a way that she swore looked… pleased, baleful burning gold softening into something she would almost call warm.

The Voice spoke again, no longer whispering in her ear but resonating through the air, through her very bones with how deep it was, rumbling like a mountain had chosen to speak.

“Protective too. Good, you’re more of a little wildcat than a butterfly. Yes, I think he chose well.”

A slow, rolling blink covered the golden gaze, retreating like a wave along the sand as something about it seemed to… settle, suddenly no longer as fearful, as intimidating as it first was. The eye (and the strange, rippling, crawling darkness around it) shifted, tilted in a way that left her somehow sure it was looking past her, at Pinocchio.

She couldn’t help but silently bristle, before wrapping arms and ergo more tightly around her boy. That eerie, inhuman gaze flicked back to her. Despite being only an eye, she almost felt that it seemed… amused. A gust of hot, sweet air blew under the wing, ruffling feathers and hair alike before the Voice spoke again, vibrating the very foundation of this strange place with every word.

“To address one of your… concerns, our Little One paid the price, his… toll if you will, more than adequately. Life begets life, and death feeds life. I seized the opportunity and he accepted my gift.”

Gathering her courage she sat up a little more, looking down a moment to sort her thoughts before she stared back at the… being that watched patiently.

“Who… are you? What did you do… no, what did you give to Pinocchio? Why is he like this?”

Oh that was definite amusement, that lidded tilt, the way the skittering dark folded like laughter lines at the corner, barely visible but there to be seen.

“Ah, the little wildcat speaks. You Wish to know what I gave him?”

Sophia really didn’t like the subtle emphasis on ‘wish’, half remembered fairy tales about creatures where one careless word could spell untold misery stirring in the back of her mind.

“No, that wasn’t a wish, merely a question.”

“Hmm. The tongue is a good thing to mind, though I am no daoine sith of western myth, no djinn that pounces on unwary words. Politeness is something I can appreciate though. Despite his… unconventional birth, our Little One is unfailingly polite.”

She didn’t even realise the eerie, off looking fingers were gone until the wing dipped, settled rather heavily on the top of her head and made her startle. The being graciously made no mention of it, though another suspicious huff of warm air emanated from the dark.

“As to what I gave him… a life unbound from steel and oil, from failing parts and broken springs, the inevitable degradation of time.”

There was something more to what they were saying, some buried extra meaning but Sophia couldn’t quite grasp it, didn’t have time to ponder it before they spoke again.

“I have a… proposition for you, as the one he deeply cares for like a Mother. What it entails can wait for now though, I found a stray you might recognise, though the poor thing has been rather mistreated.”

A ripple in the darkness, and then a too small shape was lying still on the ground beneath a spindly golden sapling, a tattered, fractured ergo signature, weak but steady like a candle flame. She… recognised it, knew it well but how… how was Carlo’s broken ergo here?!

“I leave it in your care, Little Wildcat. Now look away, you’re not ready to See yet.”

So saying, the darkness parted, stars twinkling in the revealed sky as the being rose up, and up… and up, unfolding and growing and (nostoplook𝖆𝙬𝚊𝔶𝐢𝘁𝔥𝔲𝓇𝕥) as ˙𝒌𝑐𝕒𝕓 𝗱𝒆𝖗𝗮𝘵𝑠 𝔂𝘵𝖎𝘯𝖗𝕖𝓉𝙴 𝙙𝒏𝒂 ℯ𝘬𝙤𝐫𝚋 𝙮𝘁𝓲𝑙𝓪𝚎𝘳

˙𝓰𝕟𝕚𝚍𝒏𝗮𝘵𝓼𝖗𝖊𝑑𝙣𝕦 𝑒𝚍𝐢𝓼𝙩𝐮𝔬 'ℯ𝙘𝐧𝓸 𝘵𝐚 𝐥𝔩𝗮 𝙚𝖋𝗶𝓁 𝚑𝘵𝓲𝐰 𝘥𝖊𝓃𝚛𝙪𝑏/𝕕𝙚𝖎𝓭/𝓽𝗽𝒆𝑙𝔰 𝑡𝘪 𝖘𝑎 𝙙𝗮𝒆𝘥 𝘦𝒽𝘵 𝐨𝕥 𝒔𝑒𝙞𝕓𝑎𝒍𝑙𝓾𝓵 𝕘𝘯𝒶𝐬 𝗱𝙣𝙖 𝘀𝘳𝒶𝘵𝓈 𝒹𝓮𝗵𝙩𝚛𝗶𝕓 𝘵𝙖𝒽𝐭 𝖓𝙤𝖎𝕥𝒂𝘦𝒓𝑐 𝐟𝐨 𝖑𝐥𝗲𝔴 𝙜𝔫𝚒𝙧𝔲𝓸𝓋𝗲𝖉 𝚊 '𝙚𝑑𝑎𝗹𝖇 𝚎𝓱𝒕 𝑠𝔞𝘄 𝚝𝖎 𝙙𝓷𝕒 𝚝𝔬𝒏𝐤 𝘯𝓪𝚒𝚍𝚛𝚘ℊ 𝕒 𝔰𝐚𝔴 𝙚𝓂𝓲𝕿

It seemed like forever but was only an instant before it was gone and she fell, blind, deaf, head fit to burst as all the thoughts in her head u n w o u n d and

                                        scattered

                                                                                                                                like 

    butterflies.

Oh.

Perhaps

                 she

                           shouldn’t

                                              have…

…

…

…

Thought slowly came back to her, everything feeling slow and sore and delicate, like if she moved too fast it would all break. Something was shaking her shoulder, small cold hands and a barely heard, distorted staticy voice calling her name.

“M̸i̴s̴s̷ ̶M̸o̷n̴a̷d̵,̶ ̶S̸o̴p̴h̷i̴a̵?̸ ̴W̴a̷k̷e̷ ̵u̶p̸!̷ ̴P̵l̴e̴a̶s̶e̶ ̷w̸a̵k̶e̷ ̷u̴p̴.̷.̸.̷”

“Mmmh…”

Just sitting up required so much effort, having to stop and think about which muscle or body part to move. She’d fallen out from under the wing, slipped down the tiny root strewn slope that led up to the hollow.

Her head felt like a sloshing lead weight, even the starlight felt too bright as she squinted at the small figure crouched beside her. It was a child, a boy of maybe six, pale and skinny in that crisp uniform… There was something…

Carlo! That was it… he wasn’t her boy though, much as she knew that broken ergo. Her boy was… was under the blue, in the nest. Yes, that felt like the place she needed to be.

"̸S̵o̶p̶h̷i̸a̶?̸ ̸A̴r̸e̶ ̷y̸o̶u̷ ̸a̴l̸r̴i̸g̷h̵t̶?̴"̶

The boy was trying to help, holding her arm when she almost toppled over just getting onto her knees.

“M’fine, just need to get back.”

Crawling back up the slope was a laborious task, energy draining away like water in dry sand as the pliant, spongy roots made the small ascent all the more difficult. The boy, no Carlo kept asking her questions, did she know where they were, why they were here, why was she collapsed when he woke up, and she just couldn’t focus enough to properly reply. It took most of her concentration to keep putting one hand in front of the other, each thought a heavy stone she had to keep holding up or it would sink into darkness and vanish.

Finally reaching the lip of the hollow (the nest), all but tumbling under the sheltering wing was such a relief… She couldn’t ignore the rising swell of exhaustion as she settled against Pinocchio, curling close and resting her head beside his. Everything was already fading around the edges but, there was the other boy wasn’t there? She should… say something…

“I’m going… to sleep for a while, I’ll be fine… with some rest… okay Carlo? Just… stay here while I…”

The sentence trailed off before she could finish, too tired to resist sleep’s pull. The small fractured child reluctantly slipped under the edge of the wing, huddled against her back and shot the silver haired figure she curled around a wary look.

He didn’t understand where he was, why he was pulled from his prison of canvas and paint so completely… but it seemed he’d have to wait for answers. At least it was warm under here, a sensation he hadn’t felt in a very long time, not since his living body died and the rest of his self crystallised. Resting perhaps wasn’t such a bad idea, even with the puppet here.

Soon the only sounds were the soft intermingled breathing of three sleeping bodies, with only the Eternal night sky as witness.