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@speaktruly
a low activity, 18+, iconless lies of p multimuse. loved by ghost, 30 y/o, italian, any pronouns. sideblog of ghostories.
this blog contains triggering content and has spoilers about the game and dlc. reader discretion is adviced.
rules / muses / canon divergences / promo / prompts
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He knows better than being in the way when someone is trying to clean, so he immediately goes for the exit, each step feeling heavier than the other. P should've been used to this feeling, by now. Venigni seems to be dealing with it just fine, everyday, and so do many others in Hotel Krat, or outside of it.
And he should know, by now, that Geppetto wasn't someone who deserved those kind of feelings. He isn't a man who should be grieved the way his son does.
Yet he stops. Yet he closes his eyes.
Picks honesty, this time.
"Does it ever... go away?"
He could ask anyone else. He probably should. But Polendina is here. Polendina offered his time. Polendina knows a lot about grief.
"This pain in the chest."
The answer comes, at the same time, both unexpected and exactly what he thought he would hear. It is a particular feeling, for sure. A sensation he shouldn't even be able to perceive, because he is a puppet, and puppets cannot feel like humans - they cannot feel at all. And yet, he did recognize something in the other's face, was there not? He found familiarity in what little he could guess by simply looking at the other.
His expression doesn't change. Of course it doesn't. He's a puppet, what else can he show if not his usual artificial politeness in his expression? His hands stay one over the other in front of the chest, the cloth stays elegantly on his arm, and his eyes remain unblinking on the other. Nothing changes in him. Of course it doesn't.
But then he replies. And he replies instinctively, without thinking, as if knowing the answer for certain from experience, as if knowing what that pain in the chest is, what an emotion so strong to make you feel ill is. He doesn't - why should he? -, and yet he talks. A tone of artificial politeness, a voice full of experience, yet apathy.
« No. » No tears. No crack in the voice. Nothing. Just a fact. « No, it does not. » Why should there be anything else? He's a puppet. He knows nothing. Not emotions. Not love. Not grief. « But it does get better. » No memories. No hurting. Nothing. « Slowly. So very slowly. But it does get better. »
A slow blink, a slight frown. It took him a few moments to lift his eyes from the desk, glance at Polendina, politely waiting for his turn to get inside.
Not a surprise. While most people respected his decision to keep it closed, with Pinocchio himself finding himself avoiding it as much as possible the year after Geppetto's death... but he always knew that he could trust Polendina to do his job. He was just a puppet, after all. One that closed off his heart once more.
As if that was possible.
Puppets can't lie, they say. But there wasn't a single second in which the only one who technically could ignore that rule believed the other's words.
"It's fine."
Liar to liar, he sighs, pushing himself back.
"I was about to leave anyway."
« Very well, sir. » He talks with such confidence, an automatic response imposed by his code - just a way to reply that the permission has been indeed understood, nothing different than a typical conversation. And yet... he can't hold himself from tilting slightly his head again, to stare with something so similar to interest, so similar to familiarity, at what is passing through the boy's face.
He retained the puppet's ways of emote: almost non-existent, that is. And yet, the smallest movements of his features still say so much of what he doesn't dare to admit, or perhaps to even understand. But how can he talk, really? What does he know about emotions, him, the consierge of Hotel Krat? He shouldn't even be noticing these things. This shouldn't be possible.
« Sir? ». He strives away from his code so easily to almost surprise himself. Almost. He shouldn't be making questions that didn't concern his own role, he was never programmed elseway. But he still talks, his voice a polite apathy. « You do not appear to be... well, sir. Do you need assistance? Something from the kitchen, perhaps? ». A pause. « ... or. To talk? »
...he quietly presses his hand on his father's desk.
today he's feeling melancholic.
« Oh. Good day, master Pinocchio. » The artificial voice comes as polite as always, as his code diligently makes him - Polendina, his hands joined in front of his chest and the cloth to clean elegantly hanging from his arm, is standing at the threshold of Geppetto's room, and won't move a single step inside if permission is not given to him.
« My deepest apologies, sir. I believed the room to be empty, and thought it was a good moment to dust. »
He takes a moment of silent consideration, his head instinctively tilting to the side just a little bit at the vision of the boy in such a space. Something sparks, just lightly, inside of him - recognition, perhaps. Perhaps. Whatever it is, it is gone the moment after, almost forcefully shut down by some instinct which he deleted the memory of. Self preservation - he can't be doing a good job elseway.
« I'll be back later, if you like some time. »
This is new. He hates the pain. By far, one of the worst downsides of his new human form. Pain is what makes us feel alive, he heard Sophia say once; pain, as terrible as it is, is what makes us appreciate when we feel well, when we're safe and happy and healthy. He still refused to see why or how anyone would enjoy something like that. He endured, he recieved blow after blow, standing until he couldn't, getting hit for the sake of hitting back and knowing that death was but a momentary setback.
But he doesn't get it. He doesn't get Arlecchino and his masochist tendencies, he doesn't get why he barely attempted to parry, why he wants to make their fight last for so long, why he seems to have so much fun. Why, instead of slicing his throat, his hand goes for Pinocchio's head. Why he barely reacts to the sword digging through his stomach until it exists through his back, instead more focused on inflicting even more pain.
He doesn't get it. This is new. A bad kind of new.
And he hates it.
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The fact that P is playing the exact part Arlecchino wanted him to act as in his sadistic game of his doesn't go unnoticed. Just like he expected - just like the first time they clashed, in that pool of blood outside the Rose Estate -, the Blood Artist wanted nothing more than pain. Given, recieved, risking to be killed just to eventually kill, making his masterpiece last much longer than anyone but him would like it to be.
Sickening. Disgusting. Revolting. It pisses him off.
The explosion sent them both flying - Arlecchino laughing and cheering as if he was at the circus, Pinocchio stumbling, trying to keep his balance, just to yelp and gasp in pain as he inevitably finds himself fall on his back, rolling backwards until he managed to slam the Pale Knight on the ground, stopping his movement as he forces himself to kneel down, holding feverishly on the helm of the blade.
Breathing in, he shakes. Breathing out, he can't stop a painful whine-- no, a sob from escaping his lips as his head starts spinning, lighter than he wanted. He's losing too much blood. He lost too much blood, red splashes and drops marking his flight and falls, all the warmth left in his body focused on his torn shoulder. If he has the capacity to let go of the sword and grab a Pulse Cell, it's just because he stubbornly refuses to lose to someone like Arlecchino. He's playing his game, but he's going the one who decide how this one, like the previous one, ends.
Energy fills him up as soon as the vial is slammed on the floor, the Ergo inside it filling his lungs like air after a almost drowning. The lightheadedness stopped immediately, and with it the pain. His arm felt more numb than as if it was about to fall off, if anything, but as expected it didn't do much for Legion.
Gone for good. At least for now.
Breathing in once more, nothing shakes anymore. His hand return on the Pale Knight, using it to push himself back on his feet before forcing it out of the floor with a swift, undeniably nervous movement, the kind that makes him take another step back to keep his position, the one that necessitates a moment to find his inner balance, too.
But Arlecchino goats him on to keep fighting, to keep playing his game, and Geppetto's boy doesn't hesitate from following his directions before he could truly be ready. He rushes in, knowing that the other would do the same, ready to swing his blade once more.
This time, deadset on looking at the murderer dead in the eyes.
There is always that manufacturing defect in him that will always drive him crazy: pain always lasts very little. Cogs will do anything to keep on turning, torn cables will close the leaking as soon as possible, sensory inputs will stop functioning in the instant they understand the new sensation is making him work not as efficiently as he should. It is irritating. Revolting, even. Everyone always making so much of a fuss of how much puppets are the perfect machines, and no one ever understanding that human bodies truly are.
How he wishes to be one of them. How he hates he'll never be one. How he loves he long found a way to circumnavigate the issue.
Overload is the answer, of course. Sweet, wonderful overload. Being hurt so bad that all his intricate mechanisms can do nothing to stop it, and at the same time can do nothing to deactivate him. Pain so strong it would kill a human, and he instead keeps on functioning, never feeling more present, more alive! Ironically, more efficient - as his body doesn't stop working anymore when it usually would have. The best part? He doesn't even need someone to hurt him. He can do it all by himself! He slashed himself more times than he can remember, put an entire iron bar inside his body that hurt like hell at every minimum movement and kept it there for days on end, tore cables off just of simple boredom. Screamed and laughed all the way through. Everything to feel that wonderful, marvelous pain.
But nothing beats the one given by a good opponent. Nothing beats Geppetto's boy's way of hurting him. No, nothing can, because he adds to it hate. And hate... oh, ohoho, hate is the real secret ingredient! It makes every blow stronger, every hit hurt much more than an entire train hitting him would ever be able to. The boy hates him with every fiber of his new and improved heart of his, and this is what makes their fights always the greatest piece of art of them all!
Venigni is his best artpiece, but P? He's his best brush.
Look at him, standing again. Taking his drug, stopping his shaking! Ready to attack once more, with just a swift of Arlecchino's wrist calling for him, clapping, again, again, again. Good boy. He rushes in - the blood artist does the same, of course, the blade by his side, ready to strike, his maniacal laughter following his every step. They look into each other's eyes, and his laugh only gets louder at the sight of the boy not flinching, deadset at keeping eye contact. His blade rises, as if to parry the hit.
But doesn't. Lets the blade hit him - it's what the boy wishes so much, after all! -, in favor of his free hand rushing forward, attempting to grasp the other's head with an iron grip. Fully intending to attempt to gouge one of his eyes out.
[ @speaktruly and i being normal about these two btw ]
A scream that could freeze over anyone's heart, really. One that should terrify him. One that fuels him further, met with a roar of his own as he thrust his sword foward, aiming for the monster's chest--
Or, at least, so he hoped. Arlecchino isn't one to disharm his victims, nor one to block an attack. He lives for the pain, no matter if it's inflicted or recieved, and P hoped that he would've been fast enough to avoid any incoming hit.
Of course, that would be too easy.
If his skull wasn't broken in half, it's for the same reason he couldn't stab Arlecchino as well as he hoped: the Blood Artist's blade fell on him, and he had barely the time to move on the side. It brushed his cheek and dug deep into his left shoulder, going down enough to find Legion, ripping attachments and cogs. If he wasn't already screaming for the sudden pain, almost unbearable, P would've done because of the hatred that makes him take one step too many, almost slamming against the other as his own sword pierces the enemy's body, forced to aim for where the livers should be rather than going for the heart.
Not that it matters. It's not Arlecchino's blood that taints both puppet and boy's coats, pristine white now even more tainted in sickening red. It's not Arlecchino who is forced to grip more tightly on the handle of his sword to avoid falling over, it's not Arlecchino who yelps in pain as he instinctively moves his wounded arm forward just to make it fall once more, it's not Arlecchino who's suddenly so terrified he can't even look up.
It hurts. It hurts so bad. And even if the pain could disappear with a single Pulse Cell, that wouldn't fix Legion. The other's sword went too deep, something is broken, there's no doubt.
But he's not scared. He'd rather die repeating to himself that lie than admit the truth to anyone, himself included. Gritting his teeth, yelping as he forces his hand to move, P pulls the trigger on his blade, knowing well that the incoming blast would've sent him flying. He could barely keep his footing when he was in perfect shape, there's no way he could stay on his feet now that he's losing so much blood.
He just needs space. He just needs to hurt Arlecchino and have enough space to heal.
The spray of blood is simply delightful. A red so bright, shooting up and all around them, painting the white canvas with so much hue Arlecchino fears, for a moment, that he perhaps hit too good, and the game was already over. But no, not with the dearest former puppet in front of him, no no no! He denies his fear, just as he denies his impending doom - he draws back, bleeding copiously, breath short, pain blocking him, but stubbornly alive. Oh, he could kiss him! What a good, good, good boy he is.
Arlecchino spins his blade, letting the blood covering it spray more around himself, over himself, unable to keep in a delighted laughter. For the hue covering them both now, and for that little present the kid left in him - the mechanisms where the liver should be, torn by the desperate move of the other, not nearly a heavy damage like he gifted to the other, but enough for the pain to make itself be felt. More, more, come on, Geppetto's boy! His eyes stare at the other as his fingers dig in his own body, holding a few sliced cables and tearing them out without a second thought. There is a spark in his circuits, his body tensing up suddenly, the pain so wonderfully stronger now. He laughs harder, digging more. Giving him a moment to actually react. Come on, Geppetto's boy! COME ON!!
Pinocchio's move is slow, pained, so easy to avoid. It would take him just a jump to the side, and then he'd be on him again, closing the fight once and for all, most likely. It would be so easy. Which is why Arlecchino stops moving, a sudden rush of adrenaline and joy rushing through him. Yes! Yes, he IS still moving! He can do this! Good, good, GOOD Geppetto's boy!! The blade is pointed at him, and the Blood Artist widens his arms, makes himself the happiest sitting duck in the story of Krat. The blow hits him perfectly, sends him flying back and land violently on the ground, his maniacal laughter interrupted by a short scream of pain, and then returning even louder.
« Good! GOOOD!! » he exclaims, taking his sweet time to stand up again - giving Pinocchio all the time to heal himself, because this isn't going to stop soon, Geppetto's boy, this fight is going to last as much as Arlecchino wants! - all his body contorted in splendid pain. Even clapping his hands hurts, and he love it, ooohh he loves iiiit!! « OUTSTANDING!! Come on - try to do that again! »
@infernalpursuit
Poor snail doesn't know what's coming. It's moving slow. One centimeter every hour, leaving behind its trail, uncaring of the predators that will find it, follow it, reach it. As long as it moves, no bird will reach it, surely. It's a matter of hiding in the right spots. Find the right soil. Eat the right grass. Not even noticing the salt all around it.
The words became nothing but spots on the paper when he threw the letter in the river. What a sick joke. Was it Laxasia that sent it? That is really not in her style, yet one can never know. He can only think of her who would know of his movements - even though, why not use her knowledge to attack him, instead of living a letter? One like that, even. What a joke, it seems like a badly written fairy tale. The fact that it is directed to him is distasteful, disrespectful even. So stupid.
Yet, his hands look for one another after the throw, they try to hide the ever so slightly present tremble in them even from himself. He can't stop himself from turning on himself, making sure that no one is there watching him, a man who woke up barely five minutes ago, taken aback by a letter that shouldn't even have reached this close with him not noticing. Despite the constant threat of Laxasia on him, all the Alchemists that would love to see him dead, all the creatures and frenzied puppets he has to defend himself from on a daily basis, this is the first time he feels truly in danger. So much that he hasn't even finished dressing up, only pants and shirt on, an attire he would never let anyone see on him. Perfection in his appearance comes before anything else, and yet here he stands now, even without his mask to cover his features.
A hand touches on them as the thought comes. He hasn't come out to the public view without the mask in years - no matter that no one is around now, someone could be around, and that was enough for him to cover his face. It makes his uneasiness grow, uncomfortably close to a panic attack. He puts up the rest of his clothes in an instant, not caring about appearance, just wanting to get out of that room as soon as possible.
He just needs to keep moving. That is the right solution. He will survive this, whatever those words say. He's not trapped. He's Lumacchio! He survived way worse than this! It is a matter of hiding in the right spots, find the right soil, eat the right grass!
And there is no salt around him. No salt. There is no salt.
a little while ago i had the idea of wanting to play the entire l.ies of p game as alidoro, which became me making an alternative universe where alidoro is actually the protagonist, which gio ignited with suggestions and now i gave myself the brainrot because i associated a song to it and i might have listened to it on repeat a lot today.
... so. i'll put the verse here. rapid fire of bullet points to explain it under the cut.
we're going to call it truths of alidoro. why not. spoilers for the game!
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"It's a different kind of rudeness", P grumbled between his own legs, regretting any word he said since he first decided to ask Gemini for helps or hints or-or anything he wanted to ask to begin with! At this point, he barely remembered nor cared of why he wanted to talk about his feelings to begin with, everytime he did he either felt bad or upset or embarrassed about it!
"I don't know."
...helpful, P. Very mature.
"It sucks. And he keeps being stupid about it. And making me overheat. It's on purpose, I'm sure. It sucks."
Very mature, and very confused.
A puppet shouldn't be able to snort, and yet, that's what Gemini does when his boy replies with that confused mess of words. Aw, look at him...! He feels so softened by that reaction that if he could, he would kiss him on the forehead - huh, very specific thought, and his Ergo stirs happily at the mental image. He wonders why -, but alas he only tilts his head, letting him vent those confused feelings of his.
Then his antennae twitch, and he blinks at the word overheat. Snorts.
« Well. » he begins, researching mentally his adolescence files and wondering how much to tell him, a little kid in the body of a young man. « First of all, the overheat can be caused on purpose, yes, but it is a natural reaction of the body to stimuli. And those can also just... happen. You have a functional human body now, and apparently you are not... ». He hesitates. Twitches his antennae once more. Ah, well, the s-word will come out sooner or later, he can't really talk by synonymous forever. « ... you are not asexual. I think you are feeling that kind of attraction to your special friend. »
He keeps quiet for a moment. Stares at Pinocchio. « ... alright. How much of what I just said is gibberish to you? How deep do I have to go in your sexual education? » Did Geppetto even programmed a small memory of what it is?
Seconds feels like hours. Maybe he actually sat there for hours, and he didn't notice. Time seems to be distorted in the Isle of the Alchemist, from the second he stepped in there he felt as if not a single minute, yet a thousand years passed.
Thousand years going up the tower. Thousand years battling Laxasia. Thousand years since Antonia's passing. Thousand years since Sophia disappeared. Thousand years spent trying to force himeslf to cry, just a little, just a single tears would've been enough. Thousand years of disappointment.
If he felt Gemini, it's just because of the weight on his shoulder. His words don't make him look up, they don't make him move. But they're appreciated. Despite the pain in his chest, they make him feel warmer, even for just a second. Thousand years of warmth.
Thousands more of pain.
"I didn't even say goodbye."
Silver locks fall further, his head and nails digging more in his legs. The position is far from comfortable, and his grip hurts.
"Not to her. Not to Antonia."
A deep breath in, another out - mechanical and so human at the same time, shaky yet robotic.
"I don't know if I'll say it to my father either.
...it's not fair."
It's not fair that he didn't get to say goodbye. That Venigni didn't get to say goodbye to his parents, or Eugènie to the liar who pretended to be her hero but that she still cared for, or Belle with her partner, or Romeo to Geppetto's real boy, or the Rabbits to their brother, or Sophia to anyone at the Hotel. Because of his choice. Because he tainted himself in blood. Because he was ordered, then wanted, to taint himself in blood.
His eyes forcefully move at last, leaving the image that by now he knows will never leave him to go to the cricket on his side. And as hard as it could be to emote, still, there's so much grief and pain and sadness and anger in them. He just... looks at his guiding light. At his self-proclaimed conscience, who was leaking for reasons he couldn't comprehend. It makes him feel jealous.
"What now...?"
How can I face my father knowing his true colors? How can I face Simon now that I'm so hurt? How can I save Krat?
No, it's not fair. Nothing of this is fair, not even remotely. Gemini just stays there. Sitting, silent, letting his boy talk, because that is what he needs to do. Because he has no idea how to reply to what he's saying. He didn't even think about the goodbye before - and yet, now that Pinocchio names the word, something stirs for the umpteenth time inside of him, feeling uncomfortably similar to a memory long gone and now suddenly revived. Not saying goodbye. It feels like something he didn't think about, because he got so used to it; and it makes him shiver for a moment, his Ergo concentrating in his chest and twisting painfully in pain.
Everytime he feels like a forgotten memory comes back to life, he's filled with a horrible sensation of déjà vu, as if so many memories inside of him are simply... gone. So many questions he should be asking himself, and that he doesn't, because he can't remember he should be making them. For the first time, in front of his boy's suffering, in front of his own tears, in front of so much death, a question he long tried to push back and not think about - because he can't think about himself, he has to think about his boy, he has to think about all the others, not himself, never himself - stirs uncontrollably out of his grasp.
Why am I feeling these things? Why am I feeling like I'm remembering something? What... what the hell am I? Who am I?...
... could I say goodbye to myself...?
Pinocchio lifts his gaze to him, and Gemini turns his head to meet him. Azure tears keep leaking, his body unable to push that sorrow into much needed sobs, just silent lines of shining blue scratching his metal face. A part of him thinks he should be hiding them - another, much more loving, much more gentle, whispers him to simply show them. To let himself suffer, for once, together with his boy.
What now?, he asks. What a difficult question.
He takes a moment before answering, his code suggesting a few replies and him just letting them flow, digital thoughts forming and disappearing in a moment. This isn't about a code now, not anymore. This isn't a little kid hiding in his bedroom because he broke the vase in the living room by mistake, that needs him to say to tell it to his father and everything will be okay. It will not be okay. This is not an okay situation. This is not something a code is trained to help with.
A few seconds of heavy silence fall between the two. Gemini knows what Pinocchio means, with that question. How can I go on? How can I save Krat now? Now that nothing seems to make sense anymore? Antonia said to save Krat, but now she's dead. Sophia said to save Krat, but she lied. Geppetto said to save Krat, but he doesn't care about it truly. His antennae twitch thoughtful.
« I know everyone told you to save the city. » he starts saying, nothing more than a whisper. Just a small conversation, between the two of them, and no one else. Not even the spirit of Sophia, still lingering in the room, touching their Ergo. Too similar to puppet strings, to him. « And you've been doing it, and... you've been good. But... »
His gaze lingers, loses himself in nothingness for a long, thoughtful moment; then, comes back to Pinocchio's, and there it stays. There, with him, always, even in this moment.
« Pal, do you want do save Krat? » he asks, slowly, gently, but decisive in his tone. Not a question thrown to the wind, not a thought passing by: an actual, genuine question. « Leave the others out of this. Sophia, and Antonia, and... Geppetto, too. Leave them all out. What do you want, pal? »
And she found the man, Venigni told her about, exactly where he told her she could find him. And even though he also told her that the puppetmaker was 'busy' and 'distant', Lilli hadn't expected... this. The door had been open, so there hadn't been a point in knocking. She even had greeted the old man as she laid her eyes on him uppon entering... But it hadn't seemed to reach him. Geppetto, at least she guessed that this must be him, didn't seemed to even notice a new person appearing. He was simply mumbling something, which made the thief raise a brow.
" Hey- I am talking to you- "
Lilli spoke again as the man stood up and walking past her... which was when she also grabbed his wrist. Not hard of course. She didn't intended to hurt him. And that seemed to snap him out of whatever had gone around in his head. Finally he sees her. And without any hesitation she let's him slip from her grasp.
" Yes. I noticed so much. "
The thief couldn't hold back that snippy comment. A bad habbit of her, really. But she doesn't seems to care much if she makes the man feel even more embarrassed. Rather, the woman crossed her arms over her chest and let out a low sigh. Well, at least she can finally talk with him listening.
" I was saying... Are you Geppetto? "
Well, perhaps a question with an obvious answer. She hasn't met anyone else up here in the hotel. Still, Lilli wanted to make sure. If it isn't him, it's kind of a waste of time to talk to him in her opinion.
" Venigni told me to find you here... So I can uhm... talk to you about what is happening in Krat... And perhaps help. So I can get out of here. "
Her comment is direct, for sure, but doesn't make him feel worse than he already is. Too many things in his mind, always pushing and pulling at one another, to make him truly care at a snippy comment. Instead, as she crosses her arms on the chest, Geppetto intertwines his fingers, and rests his hands on his lap, giving her his full attention, knowing well that if he didn't, he would have slipped again in that silent limbo he keeps escaping to unwillingly.
At her first question, he nods. « Yes, I am Geppetto. At your service. » he confirms vocally, his tone exhausted as the letters of his own name roll on his tongue. It is such a heavy name to bear. He wishes he could just toss it out of the window.
Her following words make him sigh ever so gently, eyes glancing sideway just for a moment before returning to her, avoiding to lose her gaze. Of course it was Venigni who sent her to him. Of course...
« I... I can tell you all you wish to know about Krat, yes. But I'm afraid that getting out might... might be quite complex, at the moment. ». He takes a moment, weighing his words. « With the Frenzy and the petrification disease going on - mmh, has he told you about these things...? - I'm afraid the city is in a state of forced quarantine. I doubt there will be any working boat that can bring you away in safety, not for now. You... you might wish to find a room here, and wait for things to calm down, miss...- »
He hesitates a moment. She... didn't tell him her name, right?
« ... mmh. I'm sorry. How may I call you, miss? »
...this isn't going to go as planned, is it. Frowning slightly, Antonia waited for an answer with... relative patience.
She wanted him to say something. Anything at all. To scream at her, to cry out, to show for once that he didn't turn into something much less animated than the puppets he wasted his life working on. Please, Giuseppe. Please. For once.
Okay.
...and that's enough to make her sigh. Her hands gently grip onto one another as she closes her eyes, taking a deep breath in. And out. She tried, at least.
"...of course", Antonia still nods, her eyes finding her portrait again when they open "Sorry for troubling you. I'll send Polendina with some clean gauze for you, and I... hope I'll get to see you at dinner, later."
She knows she won't. But she's still going to try.
"Rest well, Geppetto."
It wasn't the right answer. She sighs. She grips her hands and close her eyes. It wasn't the right answer at all, and Geppetto feels like he's about to die. He thinks of saying something, that he should say something else, but everything is stuck. In his throat, in his stomach, in his head. Nothing can come out, nothing can even move, not even his own body as he feels on the verge of collapsing - because even for that, he would wait a word from Antonia.
Despite it all, despite his mind completely gone by now, Antonia is still his lighthouse, when he manages to see her. But the fog is getting thicker, and the sea is getting wilder, and the land is getting away, so, so far away...
In one last moment of lucidity, he feels himself growing numb. He gets more and more distant from himself, his eyes getting lost and distant, observing the scene as if out of himself, like a spectator. He can't feel his own body anymore, he can feel the control of his mind slipping away and instinct desperately taking over to keep him functioning. Room, he can only think, room, room, room, room, room.
Antonia speaks. Two words. Of course. It's all he needed.
She says something else. He hears her, he wishes to listen, but his body moves automatically, like a puppet obeying a verbal command. As soon as that of course rings in his ears, Geppetto stands up, and almost rushes out. Any other word, he cannot understand. He just paces quickly out of the room - then accelerates up the stairs, then runs into his own room. And as soon as he's inside, the door is slammed shut, and the sound of the key turning in the lock can be heard from the hall like a scream of sorrow.
There, he suddenly stops, his fingers still holding feverishly the key, the other hand keeping shut a door that doesn't need him anymore to stay that way. His legs give up, he can't say exactly when. He just finds himself on the ground at some point, suddenly, his shoulder hurting. He must have fallen...? He doesn't know. He doesn't care. It's not important. He is not important. Pitch black invades his head, leaking into his eyesight, the room becoming darker and darker by the second. Turning off, just like his own puppets.
Just for a bit. Rest. Just rest. Just rest. Just rest.
Any attempt at standing is immediately given up on as soon as that damned foot slams him down again. Puppets don't feel pain. Neither does he. But his cogs, his mechanisms, the very Ergo that pumps in his artificial veins stir quick and desperate as soon as he's pushed down, disarmed, pressed down like an old piece of trash ready to be disposed of.
Once again, Pinocchio breathes out, and just. Gives up, at last. It was fun while it lasted. He truly feels like he managed to take a step towards victory, maybe tiring that big guy up truly is the key to get through those damned Stalkers.
The Rabbit stares at him, and P stares back, unblinking and little more than frustrated by the loss, waiting for the blade to strike down--
--and widening his eyes when instead its slammed by his side.
Something's wrong.
And widening them even further when the eldest grabs him by the throat, lifting him up with ease. Both hands move to the fingers holding him by instinct, confusion taking over, soon enough replaced by--
...how would he put this? Fear? No, that's not it. Shock? Maybe. The realization that this one, too, understood that he could come back? It happened only with the weird guy dressed like a donkey, so far-- this...
This wasn't supposed to...!
"Wait! Big bro?!"
Any thought is immediately broken as the youngest jumps down once more, rushing by his side. They share a glance before she returns to look up at her brother, her voice a mix of hesitation of her own and excitement.
"Wot did'ya say? That we keep 'im? Really???"
The eldest brother's eyes don't move a single millimeter from the puppet's, even when it looks away for a moment when the youngest joins his side with her hesitant but excited question. In a moment the last two reunite the family, just as hesitant and confused, despite the small signs of liking his words before fully understanding them.
« Oh, ohoh yes!! Let's keep 'im, let's break 'im apart piece by piece!! » « Are you sure...? »
The eldest tilts his head ever so slightly. The presence of his family so near gives him more confidence in that sudden idea, despite their hesitation keeps him from replying immediately. He stares, almost unblinking, at those azure eyes, thinking that he could make it stop moving right here, right now. He just needed to squeeze his neck to the point of breaking it - he's strong enough to do that, and the puppet is too weak right now to do anything against it. But what then? Just a short pause, perhaps not even a minute, and they'd be back at fighting again - all feeling weirdly restored, yet him aware of the evergrowing weariness. What started as a laughable fight, with his siblings not even having to get down to his aid, slowly became a consuming battle, the puppet growing stronger and stronger, and him the more tired at every turn. He barely survived this time, he won't let pride sugarcoat it. He doesn't know if he'd manage to survive another.
The eldest brother won't let him leave as long as he lives, and the puppet never once stroke just to disarm. It will only end in tragedy.
Unless he doesn't let it play that game anymore. Unless he changes game entirely.
He breathes in sharply, even more confident now. His grip on the puppet's throat grows stronger, his own head lifting just slightly, eyes glimmering with the decision.
« Yeah. We keep it. » he declares, making the battle maniac shiver, and the eccentric rise his fists to the sky and scream ecstatic. « It wants to stay with us so much... Who am I to send it away? Fetch me a rope, will ya? » He moves the puppet like a toy in his hand, drawing it closer to his face, his voice lowering as if whispering a conspiracy but loud enough for his siblings to keep hearing. « We're going to keep an eye on you. » he tells him - his flat voice shivering, just a short moment, with a hint of an excitement perhaps even stronger than his family's. « Every. single. moment. You want to die so much, to come back stronger, don't you? I want to see what happens if we keep you active, instead. »
« Ah? ». The eccentric tilts his head, almost disappointed. « So I can't break 'im? » Under the mask, a rare smirk widens on the eldest's lips. « Well. Perhaps you can break him a little bit. »
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@speaktruly -> red fox and black cat
« You seem like you need a hand. ». She smirks behind the mask, looking down at the poor boy. Her brother leans from behind her, barely holding a chuckle. « Or two! » he exclaims, and sits beside her. They exchange a glance (well... he pretends to), then down again at the puppet. « Do you want some help? »
Laying down, arms and legs wide open as he's busy letting out the umpteenth temper tantrum of the day, the puppet simply sighs loudly at the two Stalkers' words at first, squinting ever so slightly to glare at them, sitting calmly on the roof above him instead of dealing with the mud and the blood and the puddles on the ground where he's currently lying, against Gemini's wishes.
He just... stares. A little annoyed, actually. He likes the Fox and the Cat, they can be fun to have around, but the more times he gets his arms ripped off of his body, the more he thinks that they should stop playing games with him and actually help him.
"Yes."
Loud and clear, still from the floor. We're getting desperate, folks.
The Cat snorts from behind the mask. Oh, he can only imagine how much of a vision the boy must be right now, because his annoyed tone alone is already priceless! He can't see him laying down on the street like a capricious kid that is refusing to go to school, but he can picture the most amusing of poses by how much his sister is having troubles holding back a laughter. He can feel her trembling ever so slightly beside him, sniffing often to avoid letting it come out in a burst. She'll have to describe it to him, later!
« Sister, » he declares, rising a finger. « he has said he wants our help. » « I heard him. » she replies, managing her usual professional tone over the constant need to laugh, allowing herself just a brief chuckle. « Weird how he wants it. He's going so well by himself. »
Another chuckle, this time from both; then, she leans slightly over the edge, arms resting on the legs, enjoying the sight of this poor boy that they're managing to seriously push over the edge.
« So, » she continues, « we can find a deal to make all of us earn something. Pay first, of course, family's business. How much money do you have, darling? »
@speaktruly
arlecchino... you choose who for :3c / “You’re afraid of me, aren’t you?”
The tease is met with a scowl and a show of teeth. There's an attempt at standing up after being so easily thrown away, one that ends with him stumbling forward once more, groaning in pain and frustration as the taste of iron invaded his throat once more. A taste he got used to way too quickly, one that certainly the crazed puppet who dispatched of him so easily would appreciate.
"No."
P's voice might've been as strained as it could be, he could be saying an obvious lie, but the determination in his tone is still loud and clear. Using his blade to get up once more, again he stumbles back, quickly catching his footing as he points the very same weapon to Arlecchino - his eyes staring back at the other all the way through, refusing to back down. No matter how much that thing terrified him, no matter how many times he'd die fighting it or how many times it would come back with yet another weapon, Geppetto's devil was no quitter.
Look at the little animal. Look at him growling! If the grin on Arlecchino's face could get any wider, it certainly would. Not teasing, mind you ( ... well, not entirely teasing ), it would be a happy smile - a proud smile. He must say: this boy is certainly becoming a worthy contestant for first place in his favourite pieces of art. And his replies only make that place solidify around him.
No, he says! Oh, the conviction, the audacity! No, he says!
And Arlecchino chuckles at that - and the chuckle becomes a laugh, and the laugh becomes louder, and more amused, and more hysterical with every passing second. He moves like he has seen so many stupid humans do when laughing so much, one hand on a belly that could never hurt, hunching backwards and then forward, his shoulders trembling at the rhythm of his hiccups. No, he says! NO! He lifts his head almost suddenly, scarlet eyes staring right at that blue gaze. So fiery, so determined... Ready to strike again with an attack, he can see that. What a funny little moron.
In one gesture, he straightens his back and opens his arms wide. He pretends to take a deep breath while the other is already charging in his direction, and laughter comes loud from his voicebox as he shouts at maximum volume:
« LIIIIIAAAAAR~!! »
He swings his own blade just a second before Pinocchio's could hit him - not aiming to block, but aiming to hurt. If the other wishes to strike at him, he's his guest! But if he'd rather not block, Arlecchino hopes he's ready for more of his blood to paint his canvas.
