Pathologic Changeling - Tumblr Posts
Excerpt: "Crippled Lifetimes in a Broken Dollhouse" - [Changeling I]
Survival was about reaching the next moment of breath before exhaling once more. It came naturally to most creatures from birth, but some hiccuped and sobbed their breaths away, losing tempo with the song of life.
Clara couldn’t say she had such issues. She’d been living off of the spirit of every inhale she could draw, surrounded by suffocating expectations and smothering specters. Drawing first breath at a time of catastrophe had at least lent her an evenness of stride and a propensity for compartmentalization, as the Bachelor would call it. The splitting of hairs into manageable tasks.
The streets echoed her footsteps with little regard to the silence of the mourning, curtains drawn and doors locked. No longer they avoided the plague, now they hid away from the shadow of reality. She wondered if some still saw her as an avatar of misfortune; in a moment of doubt she could almost convince herself of the same. The difference was that she did not have the luxury of hiding from herself.
The Changeling was, for the first time since birth, which wasn’t much considering her awakening two weeks prior, untethered. Saburov had disowned her the moment Katerina fell limp to the embrace of cold darkness; Commander Block was long gone despite promises whispered in desperate circumstances. Clara was alone and defeated. A saint with no miracles, a thief with no spoils, leader of dead sinners in humble procession, cradled in wood.
She supposed the entirety of the town could be considered humble, now. Multiply her covenant tenfold with a people who’d disowned her. Humbled by circumstance.
Anna and Alexander remained. Was it cruel to mourn their survival just as she did the rest of her caste? The two she could see held the least fondness for her, rotting away in their expansive quarters just as the others did in boxes under the cold ground. Clara chuckled to nobody, defeated. Her fingers felt cold and numb, and she doubted the sensation would ever come back to her digits.
Divine punishment to the harbinger angel, fallen from her perch.
Still, her lungs drew breath, in direct defiance to it all.
Clara had to find a single living house willing to take her in. The rest could wait for another breath in suspense.
Abandoned: "The Rule of Threes" - [Changeling PoV]
Heads up, this is a very old work that I wrote on a whim. It does touch on the implied romantic feelings between underage character, which I would not consider an issue At All, but I thought I might mention it. I don't really care much for this piece of writing, I wrote it on the side as I was making my own longfic, but maybe someone would enjoy it.
Clara had come to learn, in all her short time in the Town on Gorkhon, that there were few concepts so prevalent as what she came to dub the “Law of Threes”; if there was something or someone of note, it would always come in triads and trinities. Three families, with their three Mistresses, three members, three brothers, or some other trio (she almost convinced herself that her prior adoption by the Saburovs was a desperate attempt at bringing a third person to their family, a fruitless effort at cosmic legitimacy); the town was split in three parts, three neighborhoods to house the families and their nuclei of supporters, with distinctly different atmospheres and layouts, planned by three architects, although one of them died a long time ago, supposedly at the hands of the Stamatins, if Saburov was to be believed; even innocuous things like the three blonde women that each lived in a very different part of town seemed distinctly mystical to Clara (she almost came to think of them as the Dames to rival the Mistresses, distinctly less powerful yet somehow notable in presence; Eva seemed a tad frightened by the concept, while Yulia found her observations amusing, and Anna thought Clara insane, which was rich coming from her.)
One could imagine this was a product of a particularly cooperative drive amidst the townsfolk in the past and that these structures, coincidental or not, would soon go out of function. And yet. Three future Mistresses, three community leaders amongst the younger crowd with three very different approaches to power. The Kin had three leaders, although Burakh was sure to upset that balance, the Kains were still mourning a third of their patriarchs, the Olgimskys had three members with wildly opposing values. It came to her attention that she was a third of a whole herself, alongside the Bachelor and the Haruspex. So, she concluded it was part of the Town's nature, a Law upheld above all else. All things, when on the Gorkhon, will come in threes.
Armed with this knowledge unknown or unacknowledged by most, Clara resolved to do as she did best: use it to cause mischief and further her goals. She wanted to have fun.
Clara almost kept her conclusions to herself, but she wasn't surprised when one day Capella approached the bench she napped on with unhurried footsteps. The Changeling's nap had been somewhat fruitless, visions misting over her rest and leaving her drained, but it did leave her with a premonition of a visit by another clairvoyant. Clara lifted her feet for Capella to sit but lowered them again, putting her ragged boots over her lap. Capella seemed unconcerned about the dirt smudging her skirt. “You're restless.”
“And whose fault is that?” Clara spoke lightly, yawn breaking any tension in the phrase. “I’ve made a rather interesting discovery about the nature of society in the town, quite groundbreaking in theory. I can almost feel myself becoming the Bachelor with how scientific my research is.”
Capella raised an eyebrow elegantly, smiling indulgently down at Clara with her ginger hair fluttering in the wind. Clara almost felt ashamed about how much of an urchin she looked like in comparison to Victoria. “Do go on. I felt something stirring around here, I'm not surprised it was your mind.” Mistresses were quite nosy, weren't they? “I suppose so, although if you find it bothersome you might see fit to ask me not to meddle, Clara.”
“You contradict yourself by reading my thoughts, Capella dearest. Did your mother not teach you any manners?” Capella's eyes widened for a moment, probably due to the callousness with which Clara spoke of her dear mother. Sometimes she forgot how her directness seemed to others: offensive, provocative, disrespectful. She'd never met Victoria Sr., she felt like she was more a legend than a person, to be spoken of with no need for much delicacy. Capella shook her head and hummed.
“You're right, that was disrespectful of my part. I'll abstain from looking into your thoughts when I can, although I'm not a paragon of control yet. Sometimes things just appear to me.” Clara knew it to be true, their abilities were unwieldy at the best of times. “Tell me, then, what have you discovered?”
Clara clicked her tongue and sat up, practically perching on the other girl's lap with one arm around her shoulders, other hand gesturing as she spoke. “I haven't been here for too long, but I've made note of a peculiar phenomenon. See, everything around here is organized in threes.”
Capella's eyes widened slightly. “So you've noticed too. I could swear everybody knows and just doesn't speak of it, but when I asked my brother, he seemed confused!” She reached to grasp Clara's hand, unknowingly short-circuiting the smaller girl's brain. “Oh, how exciting! Maybe Maria knows, and this is just a Mistress thing. You should ask Katerina, seeing as she was the first third Mistress. Maybe it has something to do with her.”
Clara chuckled. “I doubt it's related to that, maybe we only noticed because we're both observant.” Capella hummed in doubt. “But if every Mistress is observant, I guess your point still stands, White Mistress Olgimskaya Junior.” Her laugh sounded like a small silver bell, clear and pleasant, the exact opposite of the Cathedral's oppressive strike at that moment.
“It's been lovely, Clara, but I must go. I'm quite busy today. If you ever wish to chat or have tea, you're always welcome at the Lump.” Capella gently pushed Clara's legs from her lap and daintily extracted herself from the arm that held her. She smiled at the Changeling as she turned away, and Clara was left somewhat forlorn.
If locals could sometimes notice the Law, Clara decided she was fit to ask her own compatriots if they noticed it too, starting with the Haruspex. She followed him into his lair one day, carrying a stack of finely plucked twyre on her arms, scarf over her nose after her third sneeze. Offering to help him was a sacrifice necessary to gain his trust, even if the odor of the weeds was overwhelming.
As the man set down a messenger bag on the table and removed his, in her opinion, absolutely hideous smock, he spoke. “Now, what do you want? I'm familiar enough with your behavior to know you're not helping me out of the kindness of your heart.”
“I'll have you know I'm very kind! I'm a saint, a healer, kindness is in my nature, just as it is in yours.” She dropped the twyre unceremoniously and sat on a nearby crate, heels rhythmically tapping the wood. “But it is true my intentions aren't the purest. See, I've made an observation and I'd like to know what you think of it.” He looked over his shoulder at her with a raised brow, hands still sorting the contents of his bag. “It's come to my attention that the town has a recurring motif of threes. Three Mistresses, three families, three healers, three sections. Have you noticed?”
His movements stilled for a moment, and he seemed to process the information before speaking slowly. “I mean, sure, I've noticed, but it doesn't mean anything. It's at most a coincidence, I'd say.” She scoffed. He lacked any sort of creativity, honestly. Did the world not dazzle him with its intricate mysteries? He was of such a simple mind. “Besides, it's always been this way, but it's such a tenuous and vague concept. I had three close friends, there are three layers to the body, it feels more like a pattern we assign to things with no bigger implications.”
“Fair enough.” She slid down her perch and dusted her skirt, ignoring how he frowned at the torn garment. “I must be going, then. This has been enlightening, Haruspex.” She heard him mutter his own name dejectedly. Clara waved and began ascending up the staircase, brought to a halt by a blond boy at the top.
Sticky adjusted the weight of a backpack on his shoulder, looking her up and down before casually speaking. “The kids know about the three thing. Not in a mystical supernatural sort of way, more of a game made out of an observation.” She hummed, tilting her head to prompt him to continue. “There's this tradition, I guess you could call it, where kids and teenagers noticed that once you get to the point of liking people, the first is almost always one of three.”
“Wait, what? As in, when kids get their first love, it's always the same?” That was compelling. Color her piqued. “Who?”
“Not love, necessarily? It's more of a crush, an attraction. I think you could guess who, even if the list sometimes changes, but it's pretty much always Khan, Capella or Notkin.” It made sense, they were the oldest of the current children, the leaders of many impressionable kids, attractive visually and personally, in theory.
Sticky seemed to grow nervous as Clara thought about it, fidgeting in place. She looked at him intensely, smile in place that clearly conveyed she wanted him to elaborate on something; he was smart enough to catch on and scoffed. “Why do you need to know mine? It's not relevant.” The Changeling leaned forward, noting how she was taller than him, but he would probably outgrow her soon enough. What a silly giddiness she felt as she thought that her life would go on after her first weeks of awareness; what a gift to be alive. “...It was Capella! God, stop looking at me like that!” He stomped down the stairs, huffing when greeted by Artemy.
He'd lied, of course. It would be embarrassing for a boy as headstrong and rationally minded as him to admit his true feelings, especially since they were probably still in place, even if dimmed under the light of maturity. Capella makes sense as an easy object of anyone's affections; she was pretty and kind, trusting, patient, graceful and radiant, her manners were impeccable but her mind was sharp, and as a Mistress, she had an air of mysticism and excitement about her; Capella was very clearly a superior choice to anyone who thought it through rationally.
Sticky knew that, and he also knew it would be somewhat shameful to admit he liked Notkin better despite it, but it was clear as day to Clara, a thread she could pull on until his feelings unraveled before her very eyes. It was adorable to witness Sticky in such a way after all his efforts at being taken seriously and acting mature. A whisper in her own voice told her she was biased, but she paid it no mind as she exited the dark abandoned factory to be greeted by sunlight.
She sighed into the clear air, humming to herself as she thought of how this little investigation was progressing. Locals could notice these things, many of them with a variety of opinions or observations pertaining to it; the Law was known and observed, even indulged in by the younger crowd, yet one question remained: do the subjects of speculation notice the phenomenon pertaining to them? She'd have to ask the three involved, get a good sample of responses to understand this further. Scientific research was beginning to become fun and exciting.
Capella was easy to reach, even without attempting to contact her mystically or some such, especially given the open invitation she’d given. Clara found herself in the Lump on a golden afternoon, crisp wind filtering into Capella's room and fluttering her curtains. Clara caught a stray piece of paper flying towards her as she entered, sheet music from where the other girl was playing the piano elegantly, hair caressed by the breeze and voice humming along with the ivory keys. The Changeling placed the sheet back where it belonged and promptly spoke, careless of the soothing song her voice cut. “Were you aware of how a third or so of the younger population has at one point been enamored with you?”
Victoria smiled. “Perhaps. Of course, it's not my business, per se, but I am well aware of the fact. It's become tradition at this point. It's amusing, if anything.” As expected of one as well informed as her. Clara thought of her next question with no intention of speaking it aloud. “Ah, but you must be wondering if the rule applies to me as well. I've pondered it myself, but I just can't seem to convince myself I truly find myself attracted to either of them. I think it has to do with how I perceive girls and boys differently, although I can understand how Notkin and Caspar can be seen as attractive in a distant, clinical way.”
“So then who was your first?” Clara asked, sitting on the window sill, scarf fluttering. “If you can come to that conclusion it must've been prompted by someone.”
Capella stopped playing the piano, closing the lid gently and looking at her companion. Clara felt pierced by her light eyes. “Grace, a long time ago. More recently, Maria. Although I urge you not to tell Khan about it, I'm not sure he'd take the information well.” She crossed her legs and sighed. “Regardless, I have no intention of following through on any designs. I have responsibilities above my own whims, and I have enough love to spare without a paramour in the mix.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, skin pink. “Although circumstances might change. The future is uncertain.”
Clara felt her ears ringing with unspoken potential in the quiet room. She laughed to distract from her fluttering heart, shameful and imprecise. “If even the future White Mistress can't discern the future, God bless the poor souls of the world outside.”
The Changeling stayed a while to opine on Capella's songs, some original, some even having accompanying lyrics. She left the Lump with her hands warm and her voice humming new songs. Next mark: Khan.
The Polyhedron loomed, as it always did, and Clara almost had second thoughts about climbing the hundreds of stairs until a Doghead standing watch spoke up. “Scared?” Maera spoke with amusement more than mockery, but Clara still bristled slightly.
“Of course not! I just wonder how cold it must be so high up. I intend to find out.” her legs carried her up, her ascent slow and contemplative. Kids played on the platforms all along the structure, making up realities of their own make; someday they'd be put down onto the ground for the last time, and then it'd grow ever more difficult to make their dreams come to reality. Clara imagined Khan would resent the powerlessness of adulthood in the future, but perhaps the gains would make up for the losses.
At the top of the Tower stood Khan, profile backlit by the coming sunset, posture regal and distant; Clara thought she wasn't imagining the small group of kids huddled nearby was whispering while watching him. She had her answer, but it'd be nice to get it from his mouth, so she stood next to him, head tilted to look into his eyes from her lower vantage point. He was short, but she was shorter; it was somewhat irritating. “You have admirers.” She simply stated.
Caspar Kain sighed, eyes drifting to her with coldness. His hand retreated from his pocket and he idly swung a stopwatch as he spoke, tone even. “I'm well aware. Why do you care?”
“It's common for it to be one of you three. Do you know why that is?” She was curious what his observations would be, being that he was someone who liked knowing and dissecting things. “Are there rules to it?”
He turned to her, and consequently to where the group was watching him; Clara heard snickering and running footsteps behind her. “It's likely due to our notoriety, children often grow attached to figures of authority. Besides that, us three are very different, so we have what could crudely be called broad appeal. It helps that we're all… genetically fortunate.” He coughed into his fist, averting his eyes momentarily before composing himself. “It's nothing mystical or magical, if that's why you're interested. People like sorting things into groups of three, it has to do with social psychology and analytical tendencies, nothing about it is supernatural.” He seemed peeved by the idea, and the way he said it pointed to this being a relatively old argument of his. Clara imagined he and Capella disagreed quite a bit on such things.
“You say that, yet you live in a Tower that Cannot Be. You lack imagination, Khan, sorry to say.” She was not sorry in the least, and by his raised eyebrow she knew he could tell. “But I concede that it may not be anything especially magical beyond the quirks of the Town.”
Khan pinched the bridge of his nose before continuing, moving to sit on a chair nearby. Clara perched herself on the arm of his seat, clearly too close for comfort, but she only gestured for him to go on. He hesitated for a second before relenting. “You asked about rules, but I wager you mean tendencies. Rules are enforced while tendencies are followed naturally; in which case there are some observable tendencies. Almost always it's one of us three, very frequently it'll be the one who's closest to the person, say, one of my Dogheads for me or a Soul-and-a-Half for Notkin, it's common for it to not last long, those sorts of things. Really, it's all quite pedestrian.” he spoke with an air of indifference, which would fool anyone who wasn't paying attention to the amount of thought he clearly put into this. He looked at her with irritation. “Stop looking at me like that, you're just like Capella and Maria.”
She raised her eyebrows in faux surprise, smiling lightly. “And if everyone's aware of it, are there any enforced rules?”
He glared at her and spoke with a tone of voice too serious for the subject at hand. “Only one that you need to be aware of, in my opinion. Don't tell Notkin.” There was a story behind that for sure; Clara grew giddy at the thought of uncovering it.
“Ah, so he's clueless. To what extent? If we suppose even you three went through it once, does he not know of his own inclinations? Does he not know he's involved?” She paused, laying her chin on his shoulder and speaking impishly. “Or does he not know he was yours?”
Clara retreated as he stiffened, standing up and stretching as the final rays of light shed their last warmth over them. She looked over her shoulder and snickered at his flushed cheeks and scandalized expression; Khan avoided her gaze and retreated into the safety of his domain, waving a hand at her in dismissal. He hadn't denied her claim, though. Only one more person to visit.
Night falling was usually indicative that one should avoid the Warehouse district, clutch their own coin purse and be on their way home. Seeing as Clara had neither good sense, a coin purse, or a home, she strutted right into the lantern-lit alleys in the direction of the home of the Soul-and-a-Halves. The door was skewed open, so she knocked lightly and entered, greeted by the sounds of critters and the chatter of children; the cacophony would be disconcerting if she didn't find it endearing, and she whistled as she approached the back of the warehouse, turning the corner to see Notkin holding Jester with one hand and a potato in the other.
“Now what might be going on in here?” Clara asked, voice colored with amusement as the boy separated his arms farther apart, much to the apparent dismay of his Half, who yowled and flailed uselessly, pitifully caught by the scruff. Notkin glared at the cat before very aggressively taking a bite of the potato, crunch audible even in the loud warehouse. The potato was raw. Jester stilled and Notkin let him go, the cat's tail dragging on the floor as it wandered away disappointedly.
The boy sat down on a crate, chewing through his sentence. “What brings you here so late?” He took another bite of the root, which made Clara laugh. “Don't laugh, this is my hard-earned meal! Jester, the little imp, tried to take away what's rightfully mine.”
Clara nodded sagely, gloved hand covering her amused smile as she spoke. “Of course, the raw potato of kings! A luxury compared to what I've had to eat to stay alive before.” Their eyes met with the solidarity of street urchins, shared experience and struggle. “But that's not what I'm here for.”
Notkin gestured for her to sit before him and go on, sitting himself down behind a crude desk. “You always come around at weird times, ya know? Makes one suspicious.”
“Whatever could you mean?” He rolled his eyes at her. “It's not my fault most times are weird around this town, there's always something interesting going on.”
Notkin huffed, tossing the uneaten half of the potato to her. “Tell that to the Bachelor, he seems to think this place is boring.” He took out a knife and a crude lump of wood, seemingly to resume a whittling project of some sort. The silence was indicative of how she should be filling it.
“Khan or Capella?” If she ought not tell him, perhaps she need only ask.
Notkin chewed in thought before speaking. “Capella's kinder, Khan's smarter. She's nice, he's cool. She takes too long to make decisions but he doesn't think too far ahead. They're both pretty.” The boy kept mumbling before tilting his head. Clara bit down on the potato and almost choked when he said, with an air of finality. “Why not both?”
Clara could see the issue. “Fair enough.” When her friend only clicked his tongue impatiently, she offered “Personally, I'd choose Capella.” with a shrug.
Excerpt: "Crippled Lifetimes in a Broken Dollhouse" - [Changeling II]
At some point, Clara had to set standards for herself. She would not run back to Saburov, especially not after he’d swiftly taken Grace in, perhaps only to spite her. There was no way Anna would shelter her, concerned as she was for the cleanliness of her home. The warehouses were sub-standard, and she ought to inhabit someplace decent, considering the… new vacancies opened due to circumstance.
Still, the bed of a dead stranger did not make an appealing place of rest.
The Changeling dragged her feet atop a Stairway, hearing the wind whistle with clarity hitherto missing, no voices to accompany the swift movement of the current. She let her gaze roam the town, watching its glacial circulation of people working, living off inertia.
In a fit of ambition not entirely foreign to her, Clara’s eyes hooked onto the flat and even shapes of the Crucible. Empty, lifeless, with no purpose in the vacancy of its dozens of rooms, exquisitely made for a family that fell, not upon their sword, but with it. She could live a fine afterlife in those hallowed halls.
Clara the nameless would pay the last living Kain a visit, and if she were successful, she would never be considered a visitor again.
Excerpt: "Crippled Lifetimes in a Broken Dollhouse" - [Khan II]
Khan barely felt real, drifting through the wings of the Crucible with aimless frustration, as if somehow one of the empty rooms would reveal to him something left unturned, an undisturbed memory, a fragment of sanctity in a wretched wasteland. Houses had never been a place of comfort for him, much less his own. He locked the door to Maria’s wing like one would seal an envelope with wax; no longer was it for his hands to open.
“A shame, the amount of empty houses left in the Plague’s wake.” Musical like a songbird, but weighty as befits tragedy, the voice of the Changeling came from the steps. The girl was looking at Maria’s Throne with the gaze of a usurper, unbecoming of a saint and undue given the vacancy of the position. “Do you miss them more now that you know they won’t be here when you come back?”
Khan tightened his grip on the ornate keys he held, as if her words brushed his skin in an attempt to coax the locks open. “Mourning is not missing.” He took a breath that made his core waver. “I don’t know what it is. There are no more Kains, so who is to miss them.”
Clara conspicuously didn’t move, still like one who is scrutinized by a skittish cat. “Do I not see a Kain before me?” Caspar froze, feeling the metal on his palm frost over, as if his hand had no warmth, as if his touch was no longer real. “It would be a shame for nobody to be left to mourn the Kains, to miss them as one miss would family.” The girl gestured with her hand lightly to the Crucible, as if the wind puppeteered her limb. “There is shame in empty houses. Shame in unborne names.”
He stood as a dead tree would, seemingly steady but for a creak in his bones. The wind whistled past him as if he were poked full of holes. “And what will you have me do about that, cursed Changeling?”
“Nothing at all!” Clara walked up the steps until they were only an arm’s length apart. “Not if you don’t wish to. I actually come to bargain your burden.” She plucked a small chain from her pocket, as well as a handkerchief. On the end of the chain was a signet ring, humble in make, a blazon of the army adorned with the epithet ‘Ashes’ engraved on the inside of the band; the piece of cloth was gray, creased from what could be presumed had once been meticulous folds, the corners bearing white lace, one of them glinting with a silver thread embroidered in the design of a KS. “I am nameless once more. Give me a keepsake and I shall bear yours for you.”
A nearly inaudible knock sounded from the door behind him. He could imagine Maria’s pendant swinging like a dowsing chain from where he’d hung it on the doorknob. What an idea, to let such a valuable piece of jewelry weather the elements, soon to be stolen easily by a thief in the night. “You speak cryptically, it makes me wonder if you truly are the Plague made manifest as some said.”
Clara smiled indulgently at him. “When have you ever listened to common opinions, Khan of the Dogheads.” There was a sharpness to her eyes that he hadn’t seen in very long among the weary survivors of biblical punishment. “Will you deny me this?”
Caspar fidgeted with his keyring, uncoiling the Throne’s respective key from its place among the polished metal of its peers. Perhaps it ought to be free instead, like he once had. Unburdened by its similars. “No. There’s no use coveting dust and solitude.” He took the necklace from the doorknob and hooked the key alongside the pendant, the metal clinking with innocence he hadn’t heard since silver bells adorned one of his deceased sister’s dresses on his birthday. “The Throne is yours, Clara Kaina. Make use of it as my kin would. She’d hate to see it rot.” With that, he tossed responsibility for his sister’s legacy to someone he couldn’t trust. Somehow, the decision stuck true in his heart, unlike anything else he’d experienced in weeks. He wondered if the wind would forever sound like her laugh from then on.
The Changeling caught the pendant and key with a laugh, light as dandelion seeds. “Given my new name, I certainly shall.” She stepped past him to fit the key into the lock, clicking it with ease he had not felt in the same position; the seal was opened, too soon for his liking. “Well, I presume you’d rather adopt me as a sister than a bride. Or daughter.” She closed the heavy door before he could formulate a response with his addled mind, crippled by loss and melancholy for so long, jolted into action by a thief of names. This moment felt like a lit match in a dark cave; light, but fleeting.
Abandoned: Dogs See Dogs - Modern AU [Clara-centric, gen]
the title may give you preconceived notions but i assure you this is not anything you'd expect from me. this is from a defunct modern au of gorkhon that i used to sketch stuff for during class, not much to say for myself given how i don't think of it much anymore
Clara was in trouble. Nothing she couldn't settle, of course, she was adept at solving issues, it was the sole reason she was still alive. Probably. She honestly couldn't recall clearly most details of her life leading up to this moment. Either way, she needed cash, because she was almost certain she'd be turning 18 in a few months and she knew what happened to kids in shelters who became legal adults. She had to leave her foster parents at some point in the near future, the Saburovs didn't need her brand of trouble on top of their already notable pile of responsibilities managing the hellscape that was the school year-round.
The campus was quiet as she lurked, dawn threatening to break in the next hour or so. Gorkhon University, funded by Olgimsky Enterprises and built by the Stamatin Brothers and Co with direction from the Kain Institute of Science and Education, headed by the Saburov Group of directorial principals. A private school with unorthodox practices like open program learning and an overpriced list of extracurricular coursework, public access libraries and laboratories alongside private collections of anything ranging from artwork and literature to patented chemical formulas for pharmaceutical drugs, student housing going from absurdly cheap studio aps to bizarrely expensive lofts, and sporting a passable high school campus as well as a very well-rounded college education program.
It was conceptually utopic and functionally a mess of bureaucracy all the way up and down the chain of endless systems keeping it all from crumbling under its own weight. At least the three pillars kept each other in check, and consequently themselves busy enough to make loitering the grounds a minor offense overlooked at most times.
The architects that made the place opted for the baffling design choice of having as many alleyways and pavilions between buildings as there were open streets and elevated walkways connecting everything, like a freaky attempt at an architectural nervous system. Worst of all, it worked like a charm to maneuver places easily without crowding the main pathways between building sectors. Clara thought that the librarian, or whatever position Lyuricheva held officially, deserved more credit for being the glue to the Stamatins' barely cohesive vision for the buildings. planning all the roads seemed like a nightmare when taking into account the creative decisions Peter Stamatin adamantly defended and Andrey Stamatin made a reality.
As it were, Clara was glad for the elevated footpath she took, because it led her to the most fateful piece of glossy A4 paper she encountered up to this juncture of her life. It was in a graphic artstyle with neon colors highlighting the text “Diamond Dogfight: Battle of the Bands!” at the top of a rather crowded poster. Below there were cut-out pictures of people singing into microphones or playing what one could presume to be sick guitar riffs. Alongside the images were a few blocks of text reading “Participate in the newest talent scouting efforts of the Ace of Diamonds Theater and Circus Troupe! Sign up today with at least two other bandmates and compete in a tournament-style round-robin elimination competition. Impress our panel of judges to win a grand prize of 100,000 rubles!!” and she spotted a QR code at the bottom corner alongside an email address and phone number labeled “Ace of Diamonds contact info”.
She barely registered her phone in her hand, mind running wild thinking about how neat and tidy this solved all her problems as she scanned the code, which led to a sleek website sporting a huge block of logos at the top she could imagine was a list of sponsors. In that list was the clock of the Kain Institute, the bull of the Olgimsky Industries, the bold S of the Saburov Group, as well as some smaller icons depicting the Steppen symbol of the Khatanghe Initiative Fund, the geometric logo of Polyhedron Project and the blazon of the Town Hall. Clara was almost amused by how the three big logos competed for attention, the two at the sides raised a bit above the one in the center, clearly a design choice settled on after a long argument by the families as to how to make them equal in the layout.
She skimmed over the introduction page below that had the same text as the poster before tapping on a tab labeled “Rules and Sign-Up”. A much less cluttered page listed numbered rules about band size (3-10 with two categories for smaller and larger bands), song lengths (3-6 minutes barring extraneous circumstances), set decoration and costumes (irrelevant for scoring), the validity of cover songs (valid, but evaluated on different grounds compared to originals), going for about 20 bullet points. The interesting part was the List of Clauses, an additive ruleset about optional gimmicks in the competition.
Clara’s attention honed into a topic called the “Dog Eat Dog Clause”, which stated the following: “a band may only add members during the competition if they are from another group the band defeated previously, but a member can only be added if they were the last group defeated by the stated band; only one member may be gained each round, and this clause is only valid if all parties agree to the partnership and the resulting band does not exceed the member limit of their given category. The Board of Judges will not be mediating disputes between bands, and any deals involving splitting the prize or other such topics are not to be brought up to the organizers.”
Now, Clara knew she wasn't exactly the epitome of popularity, so this rule opened some doorways for her to advance in the competition without having the strongest starting lineup of players. If she could just get two halfway decent musicians to join her for the first set, even if one left in the middle of the tournament she could still convince her rivals to lend her a member.
She scrolled until she reached the sign-up form, skimming it halfheartedly until something caught her eye. In small print at the bottom of the form was printed the phrase “Only participants of the student body or junior faculty members are eligible for the cash prize. This includes Gorkhon High and Gorkhon University students and faculty. Outside competitors are eligible for a scholarship negotiated with the Gorkhon Board of Directors if chosen as winners.” She vaguely heard the sound of metaphorical doors closing at that moment
--
Having a teenage girl wander around the university campus was never an overly common sight, but it wasn't bizarre enough to warrant comments, so Clara trudged the halls on what she had decided to call a scouting operation. She wanted the prize, she really did, but there were a few issues with that. Specifically the fact that she was never officially enrolled in either the High School or the University division of Gorkhon.
She was morally the foster child of the Saburovs, but she had no documents proving her legal existence, so she couldn't enroll in school very easily, and she was only taken in recently, so it'd be weird to ask to enroll at this point, especially since she had no recollection of prior school experience necessary for an entry test. The Saburovs let her have total freedom outside of the house, and she could leave whenever she wanted, so it never came up and they were rather neglectful in regards to such things, in truth. Sure, they fed and housed her, but after she was deemed independent they let her do whatever she wanted.
But back to the issue at hand. She could try to forge a student ID with the level of access her foster parents had. She almost did that, but she had looked at the panel of judges on the website of the competition and immediately shot down the idea. Student Body President of Gorkhon High, Victoria “Capella” Olgimskaya Jr was one of the main judges, and she'd get caught in an instant if she were to pretend to attend, and it's in the middle of semester, so not even the transfer student excuse would work. Therefore, she would attempt the boldest, most unexpected maneuver of all: convince Gorkhon U students or junior faculty that she was totally a student of some obscure college and they should very much trust her and join her band.
She'd been wandering for about an hour, and there were some noteworthy candidates, but she needed to be subtle in her choices. Her bandmates needed to be quick-thinking or skilled enough to pick up an instrument and play it alongside her, but gullible enough to take part in her scheme. Potential business partners needed to have motivation to win but not demand too much compensation, so either someone meek but skilled or an arrogant talent that could be easily swindled.
It was 7 am by the time she strolled around a dark corner outside the science lab building, where she spotted a figure hunched over in what she could see as a biology or medical sciences lab littered with papers, books and various sundry chemicals. Whoever it was had been there for a long time, and their shoulders were hunched shallowly over a microscope, left hand scribbling furiously on a notepad without raising their eyes from the tool. She decided to do some recon.
--
Daniil Dankovsky had spent all night trying fruitlessly to make some kind of breakthrough in his research into human vitality and death. That's what she could gather from observing him from outside after she came back from her extended reconnaissance. At this point he seemed to just be analyzing chemical components of random solutions he found in the lab, noting cell behavior and whatnot for the hell of it.
Med school alumnus, pathophysiology consultant and researcher endorsed by the Kains, he had the run of the lab until morning classes started without supervision, which was somewhat remarkable in itself. Apparently he was also dead tired, as his writing was decreasing in quality from “cursive doctor handwriting” to “not picking up the pen from the paper and gliding every word together like lopsided fairy lights”.
Clara poked her head into the lab from her position on the window, which was brightly lit by the morning sun. The thin curtains drawn over the windows fluttered in the breeze and ruffled the man's hair as he muttered unintelligible things under his breath. She knocked on the glass, watching as he stopped his ministrations to push his dark bangs away from his pale face. He looked objectively terrible, and the girl cleared her throat to no avail in a futile attempt at being acknowledged. Nothing. She slid over the windowsill and dropped soundlessly into the room, smelling the sharp tang of chemicals and coffee from the bench where the Bachelor of Medicine worked.
Clara had been elaborating a game plan for the past two hours, debating what kind of people she should recruit to get what she wanted. She had settled on students from an area not directly involved with the arts, as to not be overthrown by her bandmates. Alongside that, anyone in the field of psychology or sociology might be curious about herself and her supposed major, and that was dangerous if she wanted to keep up her ruse of being a student, as well as the more sociable students of such fields possibly not accept her as a classmate if they don't recognize her. Her final choice was a field of research technical and precise enough to have decent musicians but eccentric and busy enough not to question her presence in the school. Med students.
She hopped onto the table where the man worked, decided on who to try to recruit. Clara probably wouldn't get very far with this one, but a test run of her script wouldn't hurt. She had seen him working since she started scouting, and when asked about him the staff and assorted students around the block informed her of his habits and name, and she brought up as many files as she could access about him from the directorial database. He was a maniac.
“Muttering gibberish, are you? Perhaps you should vacate the lab soon, your time's almost up anyway, Dr Dankovsky. Get some rest.”
The man startled next to her, and he jerked his head towards her in a manner befitting a spooked lizard. Or perhaps a snake. He looked her up and down before speaking “It's not gibberish, it's latin. And I don't have a doctorate.” His eyes narrowed at her. “Which you would know if you knew my name. Who are you, little girl? Why are you here?”
Interesting that he'd seem offended by her using a title above his station with him. Most men that entrenched in their own work would preen at being overestimated. Still, she had to answer. “I heard you were hoarding the lab, thought I might come in and burst your science bubble to let you know. A favor, you could say.” At his suspicious look she added “I'm Clara.”
“Daniil Dankovsky, Bachelor of Medicine and founder of Thanatica.” Thanatica. She'd seen that somewhere before. “Although you already knew my name. How did you get in here? The door is locked, I don't like being disturbed.” he added, almost as an afterthought. She looked back at the window, then at him. He gaped for a moment before schooling his expression into a look of disbelief. “We’re on the second floor.”
“I didn't say anything!” she quipped, smile in place. This was turning out to be more fun than anticipated. “Anyway, regardless, you might need to vacate the premises in a few minutes. I was hoping to take up a little of your precious time to make a proposition.” Dankovsky looked dubiously over her before she added “business proposition, that is.” which didn't really make a dent in his expression. She stifled a giggle as he shrugged, a gesture that seemed uncharacteristic of somebody who put so much effort into seeming competent and intellectual, but he was fresh off an all nighter, so it's to be expected.
The Bachelor picked up his things, shoving a comical amount of hardcover books into his bag alongside three separate notebooks filled with sticky notes and tabs. She busied herself with the microscope, fiddling with the dials and cataloguing every fidget she could draw out of Dankovsky with her callous handling of delicate equipment. As he closed his, frankly, extremely unwieldy oversized handbag, he snapped at her “Stop messing with that! You'll break something and I'm the one who'll pay for it.”
Clara was a little taken aback by the silence as they trudged out after Dankovsky locked the lab back up. She curiously followed in his steps, wondering when he would finally ask what she wanted, but wanting to see where his steps would lead. They were going the scenic route to some place, she could tell that much, as he followed brick pathways through patios and wove his way through elevated walkways in the vague direction of either the joint campus cafeteria or the Gorkhon Library. She periodically stepped on the backs of his leather shoes, successfully removing one entirely on her third try. He tripped but managed not to fall on his face, turning towards her with a murderous glare. Clara smiled crookedly and brought her hands up in surrender.
“You're a little pest, girl, and you're successfully lowering my willingness to listen to your proposition with every passing moment.”
[Excepts] Moments in Time - Dialogues
[moments in time was my old document of random writings i did for pathologic, looser than my current works in between streams of the gorkhon. these dialogues don't mean much to me but they may be interesting to someone out there]
"How does one cope with their failures?" "I suppose one should let it go and move on, so as to not be dragged down by past mistakes." "But what if such failures had yet to happen?" "Then one would not need to worry about them." "You have a point. An exceedingly simple point that I don’t completely agree with, but nonetheless..."
~+~
"You both choose to lend credence to only what you arbitrarily believe to be possible, refusing to accept what you’ve witnessed of me before your own eyes. How is following Lines and observing microorganisms more believable than miracles of which you’ve experienced firsthand? You speak of a town that does not listen to reason and yet go on to complain when it is your reason that’s shunned, while being samely unjust in disregarding my own work, which you deem impossible by virtue of your own ignorance. You fear that which you cannot explain, just as the townsfolk do, and that is the difference between us."
~+~
"It seems you live up to your reputation, both good and bad. How goes it, Ripper? Divining any answers from the entrails you spill?" "Is this about that name you presented me with? Regardless, it’s unsafe to wander the streets so late at night, little Changeling." "Better the streets than the alleyways, wouldn’t you agree? And besides, the most dangerous thing wandering the pavement is undoubtedly you." "I concede to you that, but I may not be for long. You remain in danger of greeting the lesser evils anyway, my presence changes little. I cannot scare away all the dangers with my mere being, and even that does little to dissuade desperate bandits." "In the end, my smaller stature may be more advantageous to me than your bulk, then. I blend with the shadows that you cast, the light reveals you as it hides me. Even the biggest bull with the sharpest horns may be slaughtered if caught unawares, but prairie mice hide in his shadow. Careful you don’t fall victim to a butcher who cuts your pockets just as you cut flesh now." "Your concern touches me, little mouse. I promise I won’t be long in my work. Do try to keep safe yourself."
~+~
"Changeling. Care to explain what I just witnessed?" "What needs explaining to you, oh dandy Bachelor?" "You’ve killed a man without touching him. I want to know how." "I can do miracles. I’ve stated as such many times. The work of my hands does not limit itself to healing." "Would you cease toying with me? This is serious. One cannot simply wave their hand at a bandit and walk away unscathed. What did you do?" "Why even accost me and ask such things in the dead of night if you refuse to believe in what I say and what you saw? Your logic no longer serves you here, if it only leads you to disbelieve what you witness with your own eyes." "What you tell me just happened cannot happen. It’s an impossibility. I must understand how it came to be." "There are things you must learn to cease trying to understand, Bachelor. Especially since it’s so convenient to you to dismiss me as fiction but stare at the Polyhedron as fact. You choose to enrapture yourself only with wonders which serve you, and scorn those of others." "You cannot deny what is true and blur it with falsities. There is only one truth, what you speak of is opinion. Your opinion is that you perform miracles, when in fact you cannot explain rationally the acts you claim as your doing." "And how can you be so certain that what you see as truth isn’t only your opinion masquerading as empirical, as you men of logic call it. You have no leg to stand on." "I have no time to debate this with a child in the middle of the night. Go back to your nest and keep out of the way, street rat." "Better an honest street rat than a slithery snake poisoned by its own venom and conceit."
~+~
"Oynon. Put that thing down, you’ll hurt yourself." "Are you sure of that? Or are you only afraid of me deeming you worthy of a bullet in you as well?" "It seems we both forsake the hippocratic oath. I wonder why you choose to wander at night shooting at any shadow that so much as moves the wrong way." "Is there such a thing as a shadow moving the right way? Regardless, I do not owe you any explanation. I need only say I was in the right to defend myself." "A shadow must always move to accompany its source, I thought you’d be aware of that. Walking at night is not an activity I’d advise you partake in, not if you value your life and your purse." "It figures this town would consider brutes and savages as commonplace as rats. It’s a wonder you didn’t succumb to bandits far earlier than this plague business. Even the children partake in gang activity. What else, will you loot the corpse of its organs just as he had taken the few valuables in this house? I wouldn’t be surprised if you were indeed a butcher just like your kin folk." "Don’t forget I learned part of my practice in your capital, emshen. The only difference is context. I’d say you couldn’t possibly understand the reasons which motivate me to do what I do, but you could attempt to comprehend. Alas, you refuse to."
~+~
"If you were to choose a finger of mine to cut off, which would you?" "What sort of absurd hypothetical are you presenting to me?" "I’m only curious, Bachelor, lighten up. Besides, it’s merely a simple hypothetical. Indulge me this once, you dull man." "Why insult me if you wish for my cooperation, then. Regardless, which is your dominant hand?" "I’m ambidextrous." "Well, then I suppose this one, if I were to choose." "My right little finger? How come?" "It’s expendable and out of the way, hardly noteworthy if you were to lose it. You wouldn’t miss it and would retain use of the hand." "Ah, I suppose if one can hold a teacup without such a finger it is superfluous, then." "Quite, if you want to put it that way. I only ask that if you’re to lose a finger as punishment for theft, you not come to me seeking help, Changeling." "What a brutal practice. Is it common?" "Cutting limbs as punishment for crimes is a barbaric and antiquated concept, however, I wouldn’t put it past this town." "I was asking of your blatant disregard for my health and safety, actually."
~+~
"You know a great deal about the human body, yes? If I were to request you to cut off one of my fingers, which would you favor?" "Is this a jab at my infamy as the Ripper? I’ve not left any corpses fingerless, Clara." "Oh no, it’s merely a thought exercise. Humor me." "You’ve been spending too much time with Dankovsky and his theoretical rambling. Still, I’ll answer. You’re ambidextrous, right?" "Yes, how’d you guess?" "It’s observable. In that case, pragmatism dictates the left ring finger go." "How so?" "The world favors right-handed people, and the ring finger cannot move independently from the others anyway. Most importantly, the wound would be at less risk of infection or reopening due to carelessness or nerve damage. If one were to cut the little finger, it’d be fairly unavoidable to bump it against surfaces callously, especially if the stub becomes numb. It leads to ease of infection, soreness, and brittle bones. As well that losing it would cripple your grip strength more than the ring finger. "Oh, how thoughtful of you to consider my long-term comfort. I am a menkhu, a surgeon. My priority is my patients’ health and safety. That being said, try to keep out of trouble, Clara. If you’re hurt, you can come to me for help." "You’re kinder than a saint, Haruspex. I would know, I am one."
~+~
"Stop looking at me like that. " "Like what?" "Like you know everything. It's unsettling and unbecoming." "What if I do know everything? Might I look like this then?" "It's impossible, one does not and cannot know everything, least of all you." "Well, I don't know what I don't know, therefore I know everything. It's simple logic, as you'd say." "That's a childish sentiment."
~+~
"A raven is very similar to a writing desk, if you think about it." "How in the world are those two things even remotely similar?" "Well, they both exist, for one. That's a very specific thing that unites them." "Many things don't exist. Unicorns and dragons don't. fairies, mermaids, demons, angels. A fairy has more in common with a raven than the writing desk." "Ah, but think of a fairy. As a concept, it exists. As an observable thing? Many illustrations or statues depict fairies. Perhaps one cannot prove or disprove the existence of living creature fairies, that much is true. Still, the fairy exists." "A raven and a writing desk are still far too dissimilar. One is alive and one is an object, for one." "I never specified the raven to still be living. Perhaps it is dead and taxidermied. Stuffed, if you will. And a desk is only a dead tree mutilated beyond recognition, anyway, so it was once alive as well. I still hesitate to believe your assessment that they are at all similar. I would propose to you then to think of something that does not exist. Not a concept that can only live on as words and feelings, not lofty and unreachable ideals, but the true non-existent. The ideal equivalent of a new color, unfathomable. Take then, that feeling, the vague idea of what does not exist, and compare it to a raven and a writing desk. What you see is that they are far more alike than such a thing that does not exist." "What I find does not exist is the point of this conversation, Changeling. You have proven nothing to me so frivolously. It was a fruitless use of time."
[Excerpts] Moments in Time - Changeling Time Loop Scenes
[part of the premise of moments in time was the changeling being stuck in a loop of reliving the events of the game until she reached an ending that satisfied the condition of an unequivocally good ending. at the time it meant me wanting everyone to survive but costing her a great deal of sanity. i never got far with the premise, as it was too burdensome for a novice writer]
Clara could only imagine how many memories she held deep in her psyche at this junction. It was a turning point in her existence, not being numb and empty, but accompanied by the comforting buzz of unconscious knowledge, wisdom that only seeped into true awareness in her dreams and premonitions. The first times had been the most excruciating, the confusion and hurt seared her brain every step of the way out of that muddy grave and into a bigger coffin; a coffin fit for a bull the size of a town, a coffin that held dreams of long-gone hosts. A tomb the size of the world.
A sense of wrong had chased her every step, she had felt as though she was an actor on a stage rehearsing, only to be told it was already time to act out a play she didn’t know the script for. Every response she gave to others came with a jolt, a shock that told her she’d said something wrong; her confused and anxious words only served to prompt looks of disappointment in others. There was an epidemic, a plague, and she was only a girl with no memories at all, so why do they look upon her asking for a saint? She could not be any of the things she’d been told she was, why, she couldn’t recall creating miracles or stealing objects. Something was deeply wrong.
The only time she had felt some semblance of right in the world, a correctness she’d never felt before, was when she gazed at the two acting doctors spearheading the effort against the pest. Of course, that was a rather generous description of their actions, which more closely resembled desperate attempts at grasping the reins of a situation above them all. Yes, they were familiar in the same way she could look down at her hands and discern they were hers, in the same way one could look in a mirror and instantly determine which muscles would change one’s expression on their twin visage. They were the Bachelor and the Haruspex, and the Changeling knew they were to be as light and dark are to each other, halves of a whole, mirror images that created a cohesive narrative, united by dusk and dawn.
~+~
Clara felt as though, if pressed, she could accurately describe the experience of death. There always lingered inside her a sense that she had already gone through everything before, a feeling of stagnant deja vu which she carried like a satchel on her person, a familiar weight. It was a blessing, surely, to not be caught completely off guard, to always know what to say, but it also irked her at times, to know a conversation would go nowhere, or feel the cold seeping into her boots before even stepping outside.
There were worse things, though. The loss of the feeling would strike her like if she were rolling out of a bed tangled in warm blankets, only to unravel when she hit the hard ground. Not that she had the luxury of blankets and beds, even in metaphor. As it were, unexpected events would shake her to her core and exhilarate her both at once, a shot of adrenaline and juvenile glee at facing a new experience. It was as if her saintly mask would melt away to reveal a scared but excited girl, and only a girl.
The source of such unexpected events was almost always Dankovsky or Burakh making choices different from what she would expect, drawing the rugs from under her bruised feet and leaving her to recollect the pieces of her shattered premonitions. If this was what it felt like to be a Mistress, she had newfound respect for the unruffled dames of the big families.
[Excerpts] Moments in Time - Changeling Fixes Scissors
[based on that rumor that the changeling could fix anything with just her hands, a little exploration of faith-based powers through the lens of inevitablity/preconception]
Of all the latent talents she was told she possessed, the ability to unlock doors and fix sharp objects simply by laying her hands over them was news to her. She masked her surprise and fixed the Bachelor with a look she’d carefully crafted to unsettle people. Well, the look itself was just her face as it was at rest normally, but directed at someone for a long time. It worked well on those who mocked, just as the Bachelor had prior.
“Would you like me to show you?” a bluff. The Changeling didn’t think she’d fail to perform the act, just that she didn’t think she’d be able to hide her surprise and glee at doing it successfully, which would only fuel the Bachelor’s mockery of a teenage girl. She could remember a distant memory of an event that was yet to happen, him sneering at her triumphant expression and mocking how even she didn’t expect her own miracles to work.
“No, I have more pressing matters to attend to that aren’t watching parlor tricks performed by a pickpocket proficient in sleight of hand and pilfering purses.” a success, if a minor one.
~+~
She tailed the Haruspex to his lair one day, for no good reason other than boredom and curiosity at his affairs. Regardless, she slipped behind him as he opened the door, bringing a finger to her lips as the Wonder Bull looked on, with eyes too intelligent to be trusted. She would request the bull for his silence, so that he would not tell on her to the Ripper, and if that was a strange thing to do, one would take it up with her and her bovine accomplice. When it lowered its head in acquiescence, she drew herself into the large man’s shadow, almost as if it were where she was meant to be all along.
With a slouch such as Burakh’s, she almost feared he’d see her hand slip into his pocket, but she was only his shadow, an extension of him, so she grasped the broken scissors inside and tallied that a success when he moved inside the door with nary a whisper of cloth when she pulled away.
The Lair was dark, as most buildings were at dusk in the town, but it smelled of dirt instead of dust, layered with the sharp and spiced scents of twyre, and underneath it all was the sharper tang of blood. She was only dimly registering the Ripper removing his smock and pushing the sleeves of his sweater up to slouch over a desk as she sat on a crate soundlessly.
Clara ran her fingers over the rusty pieces of a tailor’s scissors, not a dent on the blades and yellowed at the handle; she could doubtlessly resonate with the emotional significance of the object, cherished by its previous owner. Besides the Haruspex, that is. She hummed, immersed in her thoughts, only to be wrenched out of them by a curse muttered in a language she was familiar with, yet could not begin to understand.
Looking up, her gaze connected with Burakh’s, who was still cursing under his breath and leaning away from her. Funny, such a big man would keep his voice so low even in his own home. Or, the closest thing he had to one.
“Hell, Clara, you can’t just sneak into places like that, you’ll get hurt someday.” He said that with the voice of someone who’d had to give such advice previously. It seems the children he associated with were most, if not all, ardent home invaders looking for trouble they could not handle if they found it.
“I’d wager you’re most likely to hurt yourself when I inevitably surprise you again. I advise you to get used to it, wouldn’t want to have a heart attack next time.” She quipped, holding a scissor blade in each hand. Two halves of a whole, yet layered together, they would not look exactly the same, similar to a pair of hands.
She noted him muttering “next time, of course.” with a voice of resigned acceptance. “What brings you here, anyway?” he looked to her hands, fingers drifting slightly to the smock laid on the back of a nearby chair. “Did you… pilfer those from my pockets?”
The Changeling looked to the metal pieces, then back up to him, kicking her feet on the box she sat on. “Temporarily. Think of it as borrowing, if you’d like. Actually, I’m doing you a stellar favor, my dear Haruspex! I will fix these scissors before your eyes, just you wait.”
He looked apprehensive, and she could sense a near future, a present where he told her sternly, but not unkindly, not to play with scissors. And yet, that path was no more right before her eyes, like fading mist, as he only motioned for her to go on, perhaps knowing his advice would go unheeded.
With a wink, she drew his attention to her face, hiding the slight shake of her hand as she clasped the two halves of the tool, the weapon, this mundane instrument, between her cooled fingers, muttering prayers she knew were mostly only for show. The rough grit of rust stained her digits as she felt, like all her miracles prior to this, the capacity of it burden her mind lightly. Just as she knew the truth in her premonitions, she knew at this moment she would fix the broken thing she held. It would happen just as the sun rose and as the water of the Ghorkhon ran, it was the natural course of things.
As she unclasped her gloved hands, she was met with a pair of scissors, rusted and old, but united, as they should be. Pride unfurled in her core, a victorious smile turning smug as she looked up to face the Haruspex. He looked as impassive as ever, if one were to only look superficially, but his eyebrows were raised and his hands flexed, as if testing his lucidity or imagining the tool fixing itself in his own palm. He puffed out a breath, slightly shaking his head.
“It seems I’ve witnessed a miracle once again. I hope you didn’t cut yourself while performing it, little Changeling.” and she almost bristled at the title, yet he said it with a levity only achieved by a man such as Burakh. They say anything can sound an insult if said the right way (or the wrong way, for that matter), but the Haruspex seemed to be able to do the opposite, making soothing and affectionate terms out of words once borne of mockery and cruelty. His kindness was nice, but uncomfortable, like a hand-me-down sweater too big for her.
Clara chose only to say “So you’ve bought the Wonder Bull now, what have you decided to call it this time around? I can never remember. Was it Noukher?” and his confusion was more familiar than whatever he had expressed previously. She appreciated kindness, but much preferred to vex others.
[Excerpts] Moments in Time - Changeling & Death
[these segments were little studies into how to describe death and the aftermath of waking up in a new lifetime, dazed and dissociated. i also toyed with having each death take a toll on clara's body, losing fingers and eventually an eye with each failed attempt. there were also plans to explore the pathologic 2 meta-worldbuilding of the events being a play, but i went in a more overt paradoxical manner]
Death was a peculiar experience. Peculiar was a good way to describe it, as “harrowing” or “traumatizing” would be too little on a bad day, yet “panic-inducingly nightmarish” or “soul-shattering” is a bit much on a more pleasant day. Waking up from death was disorienting and a small bit horrifying, but she’d still come back up. The mere ability to stand up after such events was already significant enough to put them a peg down in the “mildly upsetting events to once-in-a-lifetime debilitating horror” scale.
Sometimes, she would run into the Bachelor in alleyways where one could try and fail to sort the shades of shadow between light and dark; or encounter the Haruspex on the edge of town where the steppe would lap at the fragile order constructed by the people of the settlement. Even less times, during those encounters, she’d be pensive, murmuring aloud the experiences of death and rebirth as if to make them somehow more real, spoken into lucidity. The men would listen, awed, enraptured, or disturbed, perhaps even bored, as she droned about horror and numbness, footsteps too light for a corporeal person, but too heavy for a ghost.
“What ho, did I see over yonder, I say? I welcome blades into myne bodies but somehow the cut still hurts like an intrusion, I suppose the skin was still broken into. How could I open my skin without it being a wound? No doors, only walls. Skin. Stranger still that when I grow accustomed to the pain it numbs and fades, cruelly depriving me of what I had made friends and peace with.” She kicked a pebble, the sound disturbing her into looking back at Burakh, who sat still, silently listening to her on the abandoned railway. He was picking away at a clump of grass. “No, not grass, swevery. Why, all grass has a name, and yet we only call upon it when it suits us. ‘Come, Clara, do us a miracle’, ‘Step aside, little Changeling, you’re in the way’. Names are what carry legacy, reputation, without a name I am only a different apparition with the same face. How could they know it was the same body if they did not see where I left to, where I came from? No name, no reputation, no recollection. What name did I hear in the darkness of the earth as I lay on my gravesite, waiting for my return? The dirt has no use for names…”
“A name given could be abandoned, yes. Who did give me my name? I cling to it still, like a child hugs a toy from a parent long gone, not even remembering their mother’s face. Tragic, tragic. Tragedy is meaningless to who dies, it is only a tragedy to Medea, yet her children see none of it, as only the living fear death. Medea? Who is Medea? Am I living or dead? Where have I heard that name? Is it latin?” The street was cold under her fingers, but they were too numb to notice. Dankovsky paused his rummaging of pockets from nearby, eyes darting to her before cutting the hum of the night stating “...It’s greek, actually.” Yet she did not acknowledge him as he sighed. “The time between death and awakening is always infinitely small, like waking up without knowing I was asleep in the first place, disorienting, yes, disorienting. Was I even oriented in the first place? Dreams happen stretched into the time we sleep, taking up time that does not exist when we are awake, yet we retain the memories. No memories, some memories, yet not of the past, of the present, and memories of the future still. Yet they don’t always match, a match that does not catch, yet it still burns away, to ash, to ash, to ash…”
~+~
The Changeling was without an eye. She could feel it, or the lack of it, as it were. Lacking an eye, two fingers, three doctors. What a sore sight. Literally.
– The cost is too high. I've played this too many times. I can no longer bear the brunt of such a toll. The Tower will fall. The Town will be leveled. My Bound will be sacrificed. Is it too selfish of me to wish to perform the ultimate miracle? Is it selfless enough of me to desire to save them all? I am the Devotress, my last wish every time is that I could've found a better way. I wake up as a Changeling after my death throes.
Clara ran. She didn't know why, but there remained a sinking feeling of dread, alongside the stinging of the harsh breeze, cold. Her legs carried her to the theater, where the Changeling stopped at the lip of the stage, boots almost escaping its domain. The director turned towards Clara, away from the winded girl onstage, frozen in a moment of desperation.
A theatrical sigh, befitting a man such as he. “You're downright terrible at meeting your cues, Changeling. Which is it this time, too early? Or too late?”
She passed by him with nary a glance. “I'd prefer my arrival to be too early, if it's all the same to you.” Clara reached out to the Changeling onstage, breaking the barrier between them and taking her own warm hand.