dream eater

the past had been as hazy as the present, clouded waves that smashed against eroded rocks, failure to maintain the presence of everlasting friendship — friendship that fizzled and strained with the fallen angel. but in a sense they were both falling. falling deep into the eroded depths of despair and angry beasts that growl and moan, bitter eyes and hungry teeth, yes, they’re waiting. 

inez understood that her failures were not the same in comparison to klara’s, but how inez’s were kept under tightly pressed lips and klara’s misfortunes traveled around the office like gossip and wildfire. devilish flames sparking the damnation of someone that could of had it all. 

“it has been so long klara,” she mused, turning her body ever so slightly to face the other, thigh crossing thigh, her black dress slightly rising. how time flies in the undeniable world that they both called home, how years could feel like seconds or days can feel like years trapped in twenty four hours. “you sure have disappeared from the circles! the girls miss you so much. though your spot at the poivre table was filled by someone else within the instant, you still come across conversation here and there at the soirées!” 

inez sighed, gesturing the bartender to come over so she could order the same martini she was accustomed to when venturing into the depths of midas’s glory. “lemon drop please,” she paused, glancing over at her company, “and whatever she wants. you know what tab it will be under of course.” 

she tapped her finger atop the marbled counter, golden flecks embedded into the polished rock. “the midas has a place in my heart all in the same. well that was until the silver veil became known as second place, and now the midas is the hottest spot! which is odd,” inez glanced around once more, the restaurant was still barren excluding the three tables filled, “this place is looking a little dead.” 

an unexpected thing, to be met with open arms by something more than her own memories—another sweet moment captured in inez’s words. nights at poivre: the impeccable plates and silverware, the stems of their glassware so delicate and thin, details she hardly noticed at the time so used to the goodness of life—of what money could buy—that now ring louder as she looks back through the filter of a life much less, barely a sliver of its previous ripeness.

she looks over her shoulder first, deciding if she should take inez up on her offer before doing so in a soft voice, “a glass of chablis, please.” they are the picture of Wonderland’s finest—one dressed in white dreams, satin silk, and the other poised in the depth of dark hues, of sharp heels; a picture that the city has done well to ruin in its own ways. “well i’m glad i’ve been missed—“ klara turns to meet inez’s face, a small genuine smile playing around her lips before she turns away, nearly embarrassed at the thought.

(she is no more than a body, even in the glimmer-sheen of her life then she had been wiped out, dashed into millions of pieces that could be picked up and examined by those around the table, turned and looked at from all angles while working over a glass of wine or their house specialties.)

curiosity of a life that continues on without her: “ah, have i been coming up? oh you’ll have to tell me why as i quiet haven’t heard news of you!”

“it’s unfortunate about the silver veil—i think everyone must be a bit worried to be out gallivanting though, don’t you think? i did forget to ask, what brings you hear tonight?” from her mouth, a string of words, they emerge like a flower blooming. a warm, heavy feeling descending onto her skin.

What is the significance of a name? How tied to an identity is one? Is it truly as easy to attain an entirely new identity just by changing a few words? A person can never get rid of past lives absolutely, wisps that cling on and slip through tiny cracks will always appear.

Ruby only smiles, all lopsided and eyes blank, because there is not much to say about names that don’t fit anymore, but twist when Klara expresses her gratefulness for Vin. Still too sheltered, too naive, to believe the best of anything in Under. There is no benevolence to be had in these streets, nothing done out of kindness of the heart, no matter how they might spin beautiful stories out of actions that only ever really benefit one.

“ Can’t imagine ya staying for free, though? Ain’tcha payin’ for your room an’ board? ” Raises an eyebrow at the pink so present everywhere around them, thinking that surely the girl knew this was work, despite knowing how Vin had probably swindled her into thinking he was doing her a favour.

She follows, wandering deeper in just like following a hot pink bunny, and blinks at the sudden information. Such a foreign concept, marriage. Of course, it had been what was expected once upon a time, but it was a world away for Ruby herself, to hear that Klara had done just what was expected was a inexplicable sort of feeling.

( You perhaps would have been her, in another timeline. But wonder if you would have been as happy as she seems, wonder how girls like that end up in Under, if everything had gone according to plan. )

“ Oh, belated congratulations. ” The standard reply, and next should be questions about the wedding, gushing over beautiful dresses and decorations, how perfect a spouse would be. Certainly what comes out of her mouth would cause frowns ands whispers about how tactless a daughter in the society they came from. “ What’cha doin’ here, then? Not playin’ keepin’ house or somethin’? Under isn’t the right place for girls like ya. ”

It is all a blur of red and black, silver and white, childhood is hardly a childhood when you grow up like this. There is not much to say, no things that should be heard by someone whose soul still very much belongs in Over. 

And so she shrugs, grins, and makes herself comfortable on the table. “ Not much, just out lookin’ for fun, like always. Wonderland’s taken good care of me. ”  Debatable, of course, depending on how you look at it, but what matters is she’s been trained to survive, she has the means to go off on whatever whim she wishes, and isn’t that enough? 

“ I always come ‘round when ‘m bored. Dollhouses are for fun, and ya favourite doll owner owes me lotsa food. Ya want me ta bring some back here? ‘S not the worst at cookin’, but don’t tell ‘im that. ”

“oh, yes well—“ stumbling, the words come out cluttered, tripping over her teeth. the world is one where doors open magically before her anymore, not one where she is waited upon hand and foot; a living goddess whose feet are not allowed to grace the earth, an unsullied, holy thing, “i suppose i do pay for room and board in a way though i’m quite sure you get my meaning. the story of my being here is boring, i’m sure. i’m really just waiting for my husband, you see,” her smile is gentle, a soft knowing thing that need not speak of the truth.

(she has been knocked from her heaven, brought down in a heavy crashing into the waiting maw of the place below.)

perhaps it does not look that way—her room is one that is comfortable, full of soft fabrics, blush pink light, and trinkets though in truth it is nothing more than a mirage of a past life. scattered parts desperately pieced together into a semblance of what had been and what could be.

“thank you, nonetheless! the wedding wasn’t a very big affair,” klara emerges from behind the divider, fingers combing through her hair which now cascades over her shoulders, let loose from pins and ties. “ruby, you’re really too kind, we haven’t seen each other in years! while i’m glad wonderland has been treating you well, i should do the same and be the one offering you something to eat or drink.”

settling across from ruby, she sets down two glasses and a carafe of water. she pours her a glass before one for herself, a moment of normalcy between two girls who had at one time belonged very much to Over, who had traveled parallel paths until the fates had diverted them towards other futures so far away from the prim, proper lessons and white-gilded halls of their shared youth.

He frowns in concentration, reaching out with the hand not tangled in her hair to grab for a falling star. His fingers close around empty air, but something bright burns through his palm, sinking under the skin as pulsing liquid warmth. “Yeah…yeah I guess it is pretty nice up here. Out here? Whatever, wherever this is, it’s nice.”

Another laugh bubbles out, too loud in the cosmic silence that settles over them. She shifts with him and briefly, for a glorious second, he is weightless and floating out of the anchoring grasp of this reality. Then, her mass returns all at once, and he’s brought back down into the welcoming comfort of the bed covers-turned sea foam frothing.

“Sorry,” he doesn’t sound anything close to apologetic, too busy contemplating if the lights swirling in front of them are distant bodies of the universe, or the eyes of creatures from the deep as they drift down-down-down, two bodies falling as one. Is this the drowning he’d predicted? Promised? His lungs aren’t burning yet, so he takes it as a good sign.

Air bubbles leave her lips, and he squints, chasing after them but missing every time he gets close. “What I really want he’d never give me anyway, regardless of if I make him mad or not, so why the fuck should I play nice.” Pressure against his too-short life-line draws him away from this newest of games, turning his attention to how her nail leaves crescent moons pressed into tanned skin. “If you know all that then stop letting him walk all over you. It’s no good, feeding his ego like that…”

it is an odd twist of fate for two so unalike to meet in a singular moment, bound in their own peculiarities to a place such as the dollhouse. two who probably had never met despite being here, forced down into the maw of the earth—the under beneath the over—by forces both strange and unknown. it perhaps is all too heavy to contemplate for the moment as they are—a comfortable heaviness filling their bodies as they reach for a place or time that remains just beyond arms length.

the best she can do is pressing her grip into zion’s hand, nails digging for a hold she hardly realizes—the skin becoming flushed around the moons now dotting his palm, “zion, why do you run all the time—where are you going?”

(a place to wish for, a heavenly place, always out of reach—fitting for them, isn’t it? how the fates laugh.)

his anger bubbles slowly to the surface before it is suffocated, another dulled sensation that laps at the edge of her thoughts, “i’m not like you…it’s difficult for me.” the words come before she has a chance to catch up.

(aren’t you though? is it not for you both?)

(they have trained her well, years and years trapped in dollhouses, arms and legs posed just right, clothing all hand-picked, nearly woven into her skin, nothing out of place.)

WHEN: SEPT. 19, 8PM WHERE: MIDAS GLORY WITH WHO: ALICE

inez believed in the luxuries of fine dining, of course as the poivre was her favorite location—the countless dinners with her parents or the similar socialite circles she gathered in. however, when it came to winding down from the highs and lows of working a desk job, inez needed a pick-me-up, the kind that was lathered in gold, and it was with her pleasure that she dressed in her finest cocktail dress and headed to the midas glory hotel.

through large glass doors, inez walked with an air of rich dignity, of importance, as she handed off her coat the front desk with a smile—don’t talk, just do. the bar and restaurant was to the right, past the golden fountain of youth, grecian features etched into stone. her heels echoed off the golden halls, like haunted ghosts dripped in the finest metal, the first place finishers: the winner’s circle. 

it was to her surprise the lack of energy inside the restaurant and how the crowd was not as exuberant as it was at the poivre; however it came with such great pleasure that she was able to spot someone sat proudly at the bar, a familiar face from familiar backgrounds—an old friend. if inez were able to call her that now, if they were able to call inez a friend themselves. how ghosts from the past were never truly done haunting from beyond the graves of under, “well look who crawled out of the rabbit hole.” inez smiled, eyes finally catching their’s as she took the seat next to her, “is this seat taken? or have i interrupted something rather important, klara?” 

tw drug use

call it a treat to allow her the slack, venturing to the heart of Over for what was nothing more than work—though she hardly saw things as they were. yes, a treat, she tucks a pill into her mouth, letting it rest beneath her tongue while she is bathed in golden light as she walks in and walks over to the bar not far from the entrance.

(in a past far away in many respects, she remembers this place—trailing behind her father—so much taller then, nearly looming. the fountains water playing with a gentle gurgle in the background, a glittering in her eyes.)

wrapped in silk white, draped across the soft planes of her body, revealing where revealing must, a coy curve of her shoulder as it slopes into the soft bare skin of her arm—a tenderness seen in the unmarred skin, the way her eyes dilate, stretching, as she waits gently at the bar for the man to show up, the bartender noticing her with a silent understanding.

it is as mother always had taught her: tardiness was never to be tolerated—in the matters of men, you must wait upon not be waited upon.

instead of the expected heaviness of a hand at the center of her back, a guiding gesture as if the bar were a pretense and perhaps it was—a voice she had not heard in years, a bright spot in her dreamworld that she turns to as inez slides into the seat next to hers easily: “ah inez—what a surprise! it has been quite a while hasn’t it? my, it really has been over a year now.”

her smile is nearly as bright as the gleam of gold that surrounds them, the chandeliers that dangle their crystalline faces to glint in the light.

she hardly needs to look at the time. this is Over and so it moves regularly here, “i’m a bit early for my engagement,” ambiguity, discretion which has been asked for all packaged in the soft lilting voice that emerges from her, “so you’re welcome to join me, of course. i’m surprised you’re here as opposed to poivre, wasn’t that always our favorite?”

How does he know? His grin slips a little, wavering on unsteady legs before returning with a vengeance, stubbornly ignoring the implications of her question and his reality closing in. “Intuition I guess. I always did have a knack for finding my way around places.”

Nevermind that he is a creature of habit, and it is only through repetition that he develops his talent for wandering streets un-lost. These are details best not thought of, so he does exactly that, tucking them away in the furthest corner of his mind.

“It’s not that bad,” he shrugs, taking her by the wrist again and leading them forward at a more leisurely stroll. Perhaps he’s simply grown used to the running. “’Sides, what else were we gonna do all day before the show starts? Come on, it’s good to stretch the legs once in a while.”

Now that they’re far enough from the Dollhouse that immediate pursuit isn’t a worry, he takes the time to slow down and really take in their surroundings. They’re nearing the fringes of Under’s heart by the block, the buildings getting more and more decrepit as they go. This far from the bustle of those businesses that feed Under’s denizens, there are fewer lights to illuminate, and significantly fewer warm bodies to go around.

He tugs Klara a little closer, a silent warning for her not to wander off in the tightening of fingers around a bird-bone wrist. “Well, I saw something funny earlier from the Dollhouse,” the words comes out unnaturally loud and echoing in the quiet, and he lowers his voice. “Looked like a bunch of kids being herded somewhere by shady figures. Dunno what it means, but we may as well check it out, right? Can’t hurt.”

she was a child once—perhaps she is still, a starry-eyed girl that is only just beginning to open her eyes, to see the world as it reveals its innards to her in all its unadulterated glory. it rolls out before her as they run through Under, decrepit buildings cracked and aching under the weight of time, the weight of Over bearing down on them.

“mmm i guess you’re correct there,” they slow down, her breath still catching up until it smooths out into an easier, even rhythm, “we could just sit and comb our hair all day or organize the costumes, think of all the fun,” laughter rises out of her at the mundanity of it all despite zion’s grip around her wrist, keeping her close as if it were enough to protect the two of them—soon to be without cover. the Under reveals itself, disrobing its darkness only to find more darkness beneath, less full, a void thing between sparse lamplight.

“children? down here?” does she not know? there are always rats between the boards, “that’s not a very funny jest of yours.” this is no joke, not by the way his voice lowers into a whisper. “oh, you’re quite serious…”

this is not where they belong—just as this is hardly where she belongs she cannot imagine a place for children here. they should be swaddled tightly, the warmth of a loving embrace, wishing upon stars with sleepy smiles. here there are no such things, the heavens above a faraway dream itself. she allows herself to be pulled closer until it dawns on her, the slightest resistance as she automatically pulls her arm back to her chest, “you don’t know where we’re going and what if we run into these kidnappers?”

Klara shimmers and shines, a perfect exemplar with pretty manners; innocence and optimism in a place made for neither, Mina sees just as well as anyone that Klara doesn’t belong here.

But then, isn’t that appeal of this?

The Dollhouse is an odd place, a kaleidoscopic microcosm where fantasy reigns and things are simply because people with means and money say they should be. Mina says without saying that Klara should beg, that what is nothing more than an easy favor for Mina to deliver—another crook of a finger, a whispered request that the man in question accompanies an investor to The Dollhouse in her steed, something he would think a favor because look, the boss has noticed him—does not have a simple price.

Equity dictates it ought, that she should ask little for this because it is little to her. Kindness dictates she ought to refrain, that she should disabuse Klara of the notion and name it impossible, that she shouldn’t allow Klara to court her own ruin. Only, equity remains squarely in Over and kindness does not so much as flicker within these walls; Under’s currency—and The Dollhouse’s—is power and Mina has that in spades, though that might be the thing to pity.

How does the saying go? Ah yes, absolute power corrupts absolutely.

Her smile’s fixed as Klara speaks of wanting; there are cruel words seething below the surface because Klara doesn’t know what it means to want. Not even here in Vin’s beautiful prison does she want the way Mina has, but Mina is accustomed to the temper this unfairness brings and today it’s bearable.

Yet, as offensive as Klara’s wanting is, there’s a bit of truth in it. Mina does know what to want so much it’s beyond that, that it becomes a need. It’s the very thing that propelled her to a meeting with her father and an all-but coup. Where the disconnect is, what prevents Mina from feeling any empathy is that she did not beg for someone to deliver her birth father to her. She delivered him to herself.

As such, tongue clicks to teeth, disgust and disdain twinned into one for the sheer uselessness of the woman before her. If there’s something to pity here, it’s that all the loveliness that makes up Klara is wasted with her mind.

“Poor, silly girl,” Mina says, without bothering to hide her condescension, saying poor to mean financially so even knowing Klara will think it pity, “You can’t offer what you don’t have.” She could leave it there, she should because this lesson is unkind enough for a girl who once had the world fed to her on a silver spoon, but instead, she finds a way to further her cruelty. “Look at you, offering me promises of maybes for something so very certain. You say you need to see him, I don’t think you really want it at all.”

silly girl—all together too familiar words, an epithet she carries through her wanderings, the unvaried path of her life, nothing quite the surprise. once raised a fool, always a fool—her mother had made it be, molding her delicate form, papa offering it protection, an animal always meant for captivity. not a tooth or nail on her. a veritable fool for love, casting her lot on the wholly unproved.

this is her life, a life of pure luck. the fates play along, the cards falling as they do.

the sound is sharp from mina’s painted mouth, pointed so much she can catch its light in the dark, led by sensation. or perhaps is it the glint of her teeth, hardly rushed—rather delighted in the play, testing its own wit first; hunger secondary to power.

(how had you expected this to go, dear girl? you must’ve known, you grasp at dreams, their phantom forms slipping through your fingers with ease. remember now: you were the one who left and then they left you—it’s only fair.)

klara stands still, hands folded gently in front of her as mina looks at her, as if turning a stone over, tongue clicking against her teeth marking the imperfections. for a while still, she remains pleading, begging, a life she’s always known, falling back onto the basics, “please, mina—it’s possible i’m sure. if that’s what you want i’ll find a way.”

(yes, think—how will you do it? how long can you keep your hands clean?)

“is it? or is there something else? just say the word. you must have something in mind.” that’s right, hand over the leash.

mina tests the strength of klara’s carefully constructed fantasies with an easy sweep of her hand. how sturdy are its walls, how high its turrets? is it armed? arrows pointed at throats, will the signal go out? point: does she know desire unbounded? its hungry, jealous mouth full of teeth and slavering wanting? assertion, re-assertion: “this is all i want.”

He does laugh now, bubblegum blue and popping in all the wrong places. You’ll be picking the sticky-sweet residue off your lips for days to come. “Fine, we’ll both be bad influences then.” And maybe, in a way, they are on each other. He doesn’t mind sharing the title.

His vision starts to blur around the edges, and the ceiling seems to come alive, swimming with incoherent patterns he can’t make heads or tails of, so he lays there and makes believe he’s counting stars between the cracks. Her head on him is like a boulder weighing him down. All he wants to do is float away and meld into that painting come to life drifting so close at hand, but he can’t with her counteracting his inverted gravity.

“What do I mean?” A pause. A frown. The planets whizzing past spiral closer and closer, steadily down-down-down. What does he mean? What had he been saying? His mind is a mire of unfinished thoughts and incomplete memories, and trying to wade through the mess in search of coherency is a task far too challenging for his will at the moment. “I dunno…think the meaning got lost somewhere…maybe it drowned. Drowned?” Is that it?

He gives his head an impatient shake, flicking away stardust and asteroid fire as he does so. Nevermind that, it’s no longer important anyway. Besides, she’s just reminded him of a more vexing subject matter. Immediately, the laughter dies and is replaced by a scowl. “Hah! What’s he gonna do to us that he hasn’t already? Nothing, that’s what. He can’t hurt us or we won’t be pretty enough to sell anymore, and he won’t kill us until we’re no longer turning a profit. Dunno why you’re so scared of making him angry, he’s just a big idiot…”

laughter begets laughter, the edges of the room become more undefined until they are simply lying amidst a sea of bedding, a sphere of their own making. it is a place that exists for mere moments, “so now you know how it feels, it’s nice isn’t it?”

he is quiet for a while and she relaxes into the silence, allowing her body to rise and sink in gentle waves. her descent slower, more level from practice, “it makes things much easier for me.”

(who is she talking to? it is a truth that needs not be spoken, rather soaked in, until sensations dull and feeling are half-empty, drained of their insides.)

“mmm” a funny tickle in her through, reverberating, “that’s okay if you don’t remember.” they stare at the ceiling together until she is jolted by his movement, “why’d you move,” she whines, shifting, arms stretching out across his body, “i was comfortable.”

quickly, the world shattered—it rains down around her in glimmering shards. it is beautiful even in pieces. they are no where special, a duplicate room for a duplicate life, for a moment she sees everything clearly—where was she, why had she come here, each day more waiting, more promises, infinite hope—before the shade drops back over her eyes with a quiet hush. she pauses as well, turning over each syllable over in her mouth, “…i’m not worried about him hurting us.”

-

he thinks he might be dying here. transplanted from the alluvial, promenade soil from above to tainted, fevered grounds, made to be his own prisoner and warden, bits of and pieces of him parceled out into poisons until nothing will be left but marrow to feed the dogs. memories of watching his father’s head gardener fussing over plants that refused to take root in their greenhouse, their wilted leaves and petals looking too much like aureate corpses. this is him, isn’t it? or perhaps, this is what they’d hoped he’d become.

some part of him thinks his roots might have taken. that unbeknownst to him, therein lies an inherent, stygian dusk that only takes shape in the where the sun can’t reach, a bloom made to flourish in the dark. 

but it is a mere consolation he tells himself when underland is bleakest, he thinks. father would never breed ebon shades into his offsprings - not unless he could tame it.

the door chimes tinkle, warning of a client, or a prospect. but by the looks of her, she looks more like a girl out of her depths - perhaps lost, definitely alone - even familiar. she does not have the same irreparable eye for reprisal that besets those often found here, and so he approaches her quietly, and within sight.

“i’d be careful of handling those,” akara says, voice soft with lilting. “better not to test them on your own skin - you may not be able enjoy the fragrance for very long.” he takes the bottle between his own fingers, thumb brushing over the the label, text wild with flourish. ‘bloodless.’ “did you mean to find yourself here?”

from the shelf of bottles emerges a face like fresh-bloomed petals—colors still too bright and cool amidst the darkness the seeps in at the corners of the room, reaching its fingers inside as if prying the buildings seams open. startled, she nearly tips the bottle over, which rattles on the shelf before settling into his hands with a quiet dignity of ancient status, too beautiful, too perfect to shatter easily across the floor, “ah, i’m so sorry! i didn’t notice you there.” he moves with a grace as if he belongs amongst these bottles, perhaps one of them, hand sweeping over glass in a too-natural movement, hardly turning it over. 

she is quick to turn, pulling at the edge of her dress, thread catching in her nail—with a bow of her head, heavy on her neck. “i’m a bit lost and wandered in actually but these bottles seem so very familiar…” tongue traces the back of her teeth, thinking, searching for a memory long past. sort through the gifts, find the one that touches something deep within you, floating through your senses, unwrapping itself like a gentle lover, one leg uncrossing itself from the other, button by button, soft silk slipping from your shoulders; a completely deliberate thing.

FOR: @dreamgvrls DATE/TIME: 09/19, 11:03 PM LOCATION: The Dollhouse

The Dollhouse exhausts Mina, deep in her soul, though you’d never know it by looking at her; she plays pretend just as much as Vin’s possessions do, though the circumstances are entirely different. See, the dolls are desperate or down on their luck and Mina is neither; her presence here is a sign of good times and happy days, a sign that the bank is doing well.

It’s always business that brings her here, after all – there are investors to woo with indulgence and a good time, to reassure with personal attention, covered costs and pleasurable evenings that might bleed into hungover mornings to follow with less questions asked than perhaps intended. 

Given that, Mina never steps foot on the premises alone, there’s always a person or two—though it’s fair to say they’re usually men—in her company for whom she smiles charmingly and promises a good time, trusting that Vin will deliver. An odd thing, to place her trust there, but even she—with sometimes impossibly high standards—has to admit he has yet to disappoint her or her company.

Yet, there is a contrast; she plays permissive and arranges for her investors, but she never partakes herself. Stupid to believe in love, to have a soft heart that hungers for a truer knowing than she finds in casual entanglements, to believe she cannot give her feelings any due for fear of what they will cost her, but she does.

She does not buy affection, not like this, and she never will. It offends her—entirely questionable—sensibilities. 

Still, Mina finds ways to pass the time; there’s always a formal show to take in and less stylized ones that appeal to something voyeuristic in her, to the thing that likes knowing because knowing is power. And of course, speaking of power, there’s dear, darling Klara, a toy to be played with, not in any way carnal mind you, but in a fashion more intoxicating.

How beautiful to watch Klara court her own destruction, unaware and still hopeful.

When she catches sight of her tonight, pretty as ever though it hardly matters, Mina motions her over. There’s something that might become a smirk quirking the corners of her mouth in anticipation of entertainment soon to come.

“Klara,” the name’s lilted out, a singsong utterance, with false warmth to follow it, “Do you have an answer for me?” 

how different they are: one born and lavished with riches, draped in them until she casts them off, thinking love would shelter her; the other born with so little, only hunger, who learns to carve a skin out of another until she has taken what life, what money to create her own. they meet at points where they are inverted; fitting for a city with both an under and an over. 

though this is not the first time, only now does she looks forward to her arrival with such longing—a light the appears in the dark, opening the sky and its storm clouds over the ocean. she is but a small boat in the harbor, waiting, waiting for this moment; the birds, a flock of white gulls.

so of course, she comes towards mina with a crook of the woman’s finger—summoned. what beckons her is the calling of her dream. so close she had begun to feel it with more intensity since their last meeting, as if calling out to it in her sleep, insistent, demanding its life.

wish a wish enough times and—

(a fortunate turn of events, to be offered exactly what you wanted all along. but what will you give? really: what is yours to give?)

“ah, mina, i hope you’re doing well,” she dips her head as she approaches, reverence, submission.

(you know this well, you body poised between desperate wanting and a decadent, soft-tongued endurance, balancing at the precipice. desire functions in similar ways no matter the outlet—a truth you don’t know yet but one that works all the same.)

“i want more than anything to see him, please,” her voice rises, wavering, shimmering with the rest of her night’s costuming though she does not dare sit. she raises her head to look at mina who watches, a smile curving dangerously across her lips. it is a look she doesn’t fully grasp though who can blame her? those raised in captivity hardly know the shape of a knife. “my inheritance,” a silly girl offers what is no longer hers—immaterial for immaterial, “what about that? i can go back, i’m their only child after all.”

FOR: @dreamgvrls​ DATE/TIME: 09/15 AM 1:00 LOCATION: Under alleyway

“Come on, what is taking them so long to move?”

Patience is a virtue they say, and virtue is a grace. Unfortunately, he’s always been a graceless thing crawling, so waiting has never come easy, especially when it matters most. Time at the Dollhouse, learning to sneak out and about behind security’s turned back, has taught him better in two years than nineteen years of existence had prior to his fall, but it remains a struggle to ignore that itch urging him to run.

“They were supposed to change shifts a minute ago, why aren’t they clearing out?“ he shifts where they’re hiding, tucked into the corner behind a large potted fern. It’s a bulky piece of plain ceramic that looks like it’s barely containing the greenery over-spilling from the top, and easily big enough to conceal two small figures looking to avoid notice. “I swear if they don’t start—oh! Finally!”

The little side-street hat the Dollhouse back door opens up into stands blissfully empty—only for a few seconds at most, just until the next guard makes his way over, but it is a window of opportunity he won’t let slip. Grabbing Klara by the hand, he practically yanks her down the stairs and around the corner.

“Let’s go!”

There is a familiarity to these twisted alleyways they race through that he doesn’t want to think about, a reality following too closely on the heels of that revelation: Under is slowly becoming his new home. He hasn’t given up on the surface world yet.

Eventually, he slows, turning to grin at his accomplice, original reason for this mission temporarily forgotten as the adrenaline rushes. “Well! How do you feel? Jail-break is pretty exciting eh?”

it had been months now—a life not unlike previous lives, cloistered, on display. nights of pink dreamscapes, their soft mouths opening lazily to engulf her; days where she is dressed and undressed, strings pulling her this way and that, tugging her from stage to floor. 

she had continued to wait, dutiful. sufficing on scraps of a life lived, a life lost. 

(it is a skill, rationing, to live through the dry seasons when everything is scarce. you wring stones for water, you bury what you can.) 

but he continued to press at the boundaries of it, knocking on the delicate walls she had constructed, a building made of glass panes, built high and towering. he pulled at the boards, saw their joints no matter how well she had concealed them. when is he coming, hmm? or did he forget, doll? a cruelty she sees in shards, one that she swallows. 

is this what makes her take zion’s hand as they tuck themselves out of sight of the guards? “it’s only been just a min—”  

just like that, he pulls her down the stairwell, she is tripping over herself following him—a hushed gasp caught at the back of her throat. it is unlike any time she has been allowed out: meandering, lost, a million paths unfollowed, arranging themselves in front of her like a plate of candies to pick from. he pulls her with a decidedly firm grip, a solid guide down streets she does not recognize, a definite route from start to end.  

they are still running as she gasps out, face flushed and hair a terror around her: “how do you know where you’re going?” placing a hand on his shoulder as they slow down, breathing in thin, long strokes, klara can hardly return his grin, “exciting? you must mean exhausting—after all that, i’m not exactly sure why i came with you, that was an awful lot of running. even more than when that theo comes along!” 

(when will you find your own path? when will you stop standing in once place?)

a girl grows up on a large estate, amongst well-trimmed hedges, chandelier crystals, and fragrant blooms. she listens to the birds for company, sings to them in soft, quivering notes as she spins—alone, alone—amongst the hallways. this is her world until she is whisked away, a lovers’ tryst that reaches long across the city and away from her gilded cage. she finds herself in a small home, she makes her own castle of it, decorating it with all her favorite things, of smells that remind her of a home no longer hers. her prince comes and goes until one day he is gone and for the first time she are left out in the open, exposed, no more than a naked rose. 

this is the fact of her life: she has always lived in dollhouses, all she knows are walls.

lost again—every time she is allowed outside she goes spinning along, legs taking her this way and that, barely more than a mouse in a maze facing a series of dead ends. the under is particularly tricky, no sun to guide her east or west, not a friendly face in sight to point her this way or that. 

today, she stumbles upon a set of intricate doors, vines threatening to choke the stone beneath. it is alive in that way that draws out a curiosity from within her, its twisting, reaching arms allows her to follow something rather than setting out on a path all her own. she follows the edge of the maze, opening the door before her. another lure, the scent of something warm and nearly human. it reminds her of a place she has missed dearly, of memories long lost, sunbeam smells and waking upon linen after a long night of love. 

Boy with the alkali eyes tilts his head to watch her swallow the sun upside down, something bright and loving and almost real in how the light slides down pale swan throats. Wonder how it’d feel to cut your tongue on that edge. He shakes his head at the errant though—must be the pill talking.

“Like air huh?” there’s a healthy dose of skepticism to his tone, though perhaps he shouldn’t be so quick to doubt the word of someone who has clearly made a safety line out of the pretty white discs. “ Dunno if I want that really, I’m not looking to become an addict y’know.”

Then again, there is a certain appeal to the idea that he cannot deny. A pill a day keeps the heart at bay no? And he could definitely do with a little less heart making his waking hours that much more difficult to muddle through. A laugh threatens to bubble over and out of his grinning mouth—now when had he started smiling?—and he grabs for a lock of Klara’s hair, tugging on the soft locks like a child would their mother’s.

“You’re becoming quite the bad influence darling.”

But it balances out in the end, doesn’t it? He fills her head with talk of running down a dead-end road, she fills his with pretty fantasies made reality for a few hours of bliss, and neither is fit for salvation by the time the clock chimes a warning: the show is about to begin again.

Rolling onto his stomach, he plucks the pill from her fingers. Such a small thing it is, far too small to present a danger or threat, so he slips it under his tongue and waits for the bitter taste of it to dissolve and wash away. “Sounds nice, wonder if we could drown in that feeling though. Maybe if we tried hard enough, give us an easy out.” Something razor-edged creeps into his grin now. “Think Vin would be pissed if he found out?”

(Addict. That doesn’t sound so pleasant, does it?)

“I’m the bad influence,” a thing she cannot be, has not been raised to be; a prized doll, pretty, perfect, easily bent into the correct shapes, mouth sweet around the right words. “You’re the bad egg, everyone knows it. Not that I think that, but you know what they say, word travels.” Neither are good and neither are bad, merely finding their own ways of escape.

She goes tumbling forward as he tangles his hands in her hair, until she is laying there, a shifting gasp of laughter that vibrates through her and into him, head against his ribcage, legs extended into the air, blankets and sheets slipping off the bed. 

Watching from upside down—how fitting, how right—as he takes another, his face wrinkles around the taste, her chiding tone is that of a child leading another child; no one knows what is right; mimicry the only outlet. “What do you mean?” She stares at him, pupils dilated, straining, fantasy near bursting. 

(Death? No, that can’t be quite right. Sleeping, dreaming.)

(No, something else is waiting for her, a hope she cannot see but grasps for, body fading. The outline is something she can’t forget, the weight against her tongue.) 

perhaps there are clues missed, yet to be swallowed or washed away by either Time or the grime that layers itself hidden behind the neon lights of the underbelly of the city, to doors now barred shut and locked - closed by those beneath - but for what purpose? 

the descend through one of the other doors ( not yet locked, but how many do they know of? there haven’t been any reports of other doors closed just yet, but what will happen if they are all to close? would new ones ever be made? how would that kill or prosper either side? ) and walk uncontested through the streets.

then there’s a commotion near the doors and though they are first tempted to step away - to let the business of wonderland happen as it does - they see the way the girl’s eyes are swallowed by their pupils, trusting in her voice, hunger in the man’s stance, and they cannot help but intervene - a heavy hand on the man’s shoulder and a gaze sharp enough for them to detach themself from the girl’s hands, walk away without complaint.

in their place, pax takes a gentle grip on the girl’s elbow ( do they recognise her? a doll perhaps, or rather if dressed in something fine - the bank? a wife? inconsequential, no doubt, in either case ). ‘ you really shouldn’t be grabbing at strangers down here. are you just lost? take several wrong turns through several wrong doors? ‘

she accepts help from whatever whichway it comes—led this way and that, completely at the mercy of a fate she chooses not to fight; nothing but a whisper in the wind. a simple passenger brought down the various thoroughfares of the Under, its veins and arteries shuttling her along its paths.

is it the Under that places them before her? their hand gentle at the crook of her arm, drawing her gaze up to the new face before her. “oh, thank you—but did that man do something wrong?” a curious thing to find below the surface, a flower with no thorns, a beast with no teeth; survival dependent on the kindness of others. 

“it has it that i am lost, in fact, though it is a little embarrassing,” she goes to smooth out her skirt, fabric spreading beneath her fine fingers, “one moment i’m leaving the dollhouse and the next i’m here and it’s all closed up! how am i ever supposed to get to the Over?”

lost, implication: a temporary state. that she would be found and at one time, had been. 

what happens if we follow this to the end of the road? a playlist for alice and the gryphon (@gryphon-gus​)

It is still considered early for the Dollhouse, or as early as it can be for someplace that exists in  a place where Time is fickle, changing according to fancies, but it is enough for a bored Ruby to drop by looking for some amusement.

No doubt a scolding from Vin would be in the cards if she sneaked another little doll out of their home, but then what can he do, really? Maybe she will play in the confines of the house tonight, maybe she won’t but it’s always up to wonderland to decide, isn’t it?

Merriment, at being spun around as she greets some that she has seen many a time ( though one might wonder how different some of these faces are to you, sometimes dolls painted too many times start to blend together after all. ), but a flash of something  — shiny flamingo darts through her mind  —  and there are unfamiliar familiar hands grasping her own.

( See a alternate world, a different sort of dolls, hair in pretty curls and the sort of freedom that only those that do not know too much have. But such worlds have long been fed to all-consuming flames, shadows greedily devouring any scraps. )

“ Ruby, ” is what comes out, knowing that that is not what is meant to be remembered, but this is all that’s left now. Arms circle around , another familiar yet unfamiliar feeling, an overlap of past worlds trying to merge into the present. 

“ At the time? Did the clown give ya a new one or somethin’? ” Or did it get swallowed by another like hers had, the old still somewhere inside but digested more and more each day. “ When didya get here? ”

( Perhaps the better question would be why, but then perhaps these are the sacrifices meant to keep cities running, girls to grow up and leave their families, to be the ones that help to sate hungers. )

“ruby... ruby…” she searches something that is already gone - smudged and only seen through mirrors - memories are fickle things like shifting shapes, nothing but shadows in the water, sliding through her fingers, “ruby - hmm… that doesn’t feel exactly right but it’ll just have to do!” her hands clasp onto her as if grasping at these shadow shapes, trying to make sure that the girl in front of her was real, a figure from a past life. a small little giggle escaping from her as she shivers from excitement, from a life bursting for from somewhere lost inside her, pink feathers scattering around their feet. “what clown? you couldn’t possibly mean vin do you?” 

more laughter, childish - at play. “he’s no clown! especially not for taking me in over the last few months and letting me stay here, but i do suppose it has been years since we last even saw each other and names are odd aren’t they?”

she starts guiding ruby down the hallway towards her room, walking backwards as she makes a lazy turn at the end of the hallway. “i was actually - or i am actually married,” a warm flush crosses her cheeks, dawning on her like a rose dawn, remembering perhaps the only memories that come clearly back, “so i’m technically klara vaughn now and not reyes.” an open door, she guides herself back into a room that she has done her best to make resemble her old home, a place where she was in fact klara vaughn.