#altno.8

This was the first time something terrible happened and the person stayed by her side. You didn't end up selling her out or betraying her, you were here. Words couldn't describe how grateful Robin was that you still care for her, even after you learned about everything, but now she couldn't stop crying.

"It's okay, Robin," you reassured her in a gentle tone.

"But... It's my fault," she muttered.

"Things happen that are out of control but we can choose how it affects us," you tell her, pulling away and linking your hands with her. "Please promise me you will choose to grow better."

"I... I promise," she replies.

"Good..." You let your eyes droop close, a smile draw on your face, and your limbs became limp.

It kept scuttling all about, eagerly clicking and humming and practically dragging Cole through the tunnels to its workshop. Cole stumbled along behind it, new legs unsteady and unsure.

“Soon soon soon!” The Dollmaker clicked, scuttling into the workshop. “You’ll be finished soon!”

It pushed Cole into the workshop, scuttling off to turn on the light and arrange its tools as Cole made his way to the cot.

Cole had accepted that nobody was going to come for him. Had accepted that he was the Dollmaker’s project, now.

It actually wasn’t so bad, the more Cole thought about it. Regular people, with their bodies made up of tissue and bone could get hurt. Their organs could fail, their bones could break, and they’d feel so much pain during it all.

But Cole had no such organs anymore, but for the easily-repaired mechanical heart ticking away in his chest that wasn’t even necessary to his animation. Had “bones” made from metal and plastic that wouldn’t break nearly as easily—and it wouldn’t hurt if they broke. The cords and stuffing that replaced his muscles and flesh had no nerves to feel pain.

So really, it was much better as a doll. Cole could be damaged, but he couldn’t be hurt.

With that knowledge in mind, Cole settled down on the cot—already cleaned of the blood the Dollmaker had drained away from him last session—and let his body go limp as he laid down.

“Good doll,” The Dollmaker commented from where it was sorting through its tools, “Just wait, after today you’ll be a proper, pretty doll!”

Cole smiled slightly, unbothered by the threads still holding his mouth shut—his face wasn’t as numb as the rest of him, not yet, but he didn’t mind the small twinges of pain anymore.

Remembering his life before this hurt more than a smile did, anyhow.

They had left him, left him to rot, and were it not for the Dollmaker finding him and choosing to fix him up Cole’d be little more than a corpse right now. But instead, thanks to the Dollmaker, Cole could never become a corpse—people could die, but dolls like Cole was becoming did not.

That didn’t mean the memory of his life prior to all this didn’t sting, though.

But the Dollmaker had assured Cole that even that particular pain would be cut away, once Cole was a proper, pretty doll.

Speak of the devil—or in this case, the Dollmaker. It was right there, standing over Cole and examining his neck with it’s perfectly absurd number of eyes.

“Right then,” It chittered, not even bothering to strap Cole down, “Let’s begin.”

With a quick, controlled movement, the Dollmaker sliced down the middle of Cole’s throat vertically, deep enough to cut into the now-useless trachea with a single, clean stroke. Another slice, extending the first line to the very end of Cole’s chin, and then two more slices perpendicular to the first along the base and top of Cole’s neck.

Cole barely felt a thing, unless a twinge of excitement at knowing he was closer to perfection counted as feeling something.

The Dollmaker didn’t stop to check what Cole was feeling, though, trusting its subject to stay still as it carefully removed the trachea and attached thyroid, setting it aside to throw away later.

Next was the esophagus, which no longer had a stomach to connect to and was quickly disposed of as well.

Which left the flesh and voicebox, both of which were wholly unnecessary.

Cole remained quiet and placid as the Dollmaker worked, not that he would have made comments on the removal of muscle and adipose even if his mouth wasn’t stitched shut. Regardless, Cole let his eyes slip closed, the steady snip of scissors the only sound in the workshop.

+=+=+=+=+

Cole awoke to his eyes being stitched open, the lids pulled back and stitched in place to keep them from closing.

Any feelings of fear or squick Cole might have felt were quickly drowned out by the Dollmaker’s croons, clicky reassurances that all was going as intended.

Cole noticed that his throat hadn’t been stitched back together yet, despite all of the stuffing and cords properly in place.

But he trusted the Dollmaker to know what it was doing.

Cole was going to be a very pretty doll, after all. So what if the process didn’t make sense? He wasn’t the one pulling it off, and the end result would surely be worth the path it took to get there.

Not that that made the spoon slipping into his eye socket and prying out his eye a pleasant sight or experience, but it helped Cole feel much less bothered by the process.

The edge of the spoon bumped against Cole’s optic nerve, giving him a weird moment of half-vision where one eye could see but the other’s vision was blurry.

And then the optic nerve was severed entirely, leaving Cole only one eye to see with, and the disconnected eye was carefully lifted from the socket to be deposited… somewhere.

The Dollmaker leaned over him, shrinking down its hands to carefully scrape away the unnecessary bits left in Cole’s socket. Once that was done, it grabbed the spoon again to remove Cole’s other eye.

Cole couldn’t exactly tell what the Dollmaker was doing next now that he couldn’t see, but he could guess that it was cleaning out his other socket, now, based on what it had done prior and the muted sensations he could feel.

But then the scraping sensation left his orbit, leaving Cole at a loss as to what was happening.

Not that he particularly minded. It was all part of the process, he was sure. No use fussing over it.

The Dollmaker’s next step was to pull Cole’s lower lip down slightly, just enough to reveal the black thread behind it. A single snip of the scissors, and the Dollmaker was able to open Cole’s mouth a little further, snipping at more of the thread and pulling out what it could.

Eventually, Cole’s mouth was no longer held shut by any such thread, and the Dollmaker responded to this by lining its blade up with the slice up Cole’s chin, digging the sharp point into the flesh to cut Cole’s lower jaw in half.

It was an odd sensation, Cole reflected, having his mandible split cleanly in half. But it barely hurt, and it was obviously part of the process, so Cole didn’t worry.

There was a pressure on his forehead, then, the gentle touch of a blade being lined up right at the middle of Cole’s hairline.

The Dollmaker hummed, one of its hands pulling Cole’s hair back and tying it up into a neat knot.

At least, Cole assumed his hair had been tied back—all he had to go off of was the pull on his scalp.

The blade on his forehead pressed down, splitting through the skin and the facial muscles below it—

In a single swift movement, the Dollmaker brought the blade down Cole’s face, splitting it cleanly. And then it brought the blade back up to Cole’s forehead and brought it down again, this time splitting Cole’s skull in a single clean stroke.

Cole’s face was further cracked open as the Dollmaker pushed the two halves apart, the cut extending in a perfect line to allow the separation.

There was another sharp sensation along Cole’s palate, now, the Dollmaker’s blade slicing through the soft and hard parts of it easily.

“There we go,” it crooned. It was the most the Dollmaker had said since it had started stitching Cole’s eyes open, chittering and crooning reassuringly up to that point as concentrated on not doing unnecessary damage.

It cleaned away unneeded bits of flesh, the scraping sensation all that Cole really had to go off of. Cole experienced a sudden bonelessness in his mouth as both lower and upper jaw were cut and pried free, teeth included. Cole didn’t voice any concerns at this, though, mostly because he had no tongue nor lungs with which to do so, really.

And then structure returned to his mouth again as the Dollmaker put in the new metal—or were these ones plastic? It was hard to tell—bones, molding what was either clay or soft plastic around them in place of gums.

That done, it pulled the skin back on over Cole’s new mandible, sewing the two halves—which were still disconnected from the rest of Cole’s head—together again.

And then there was a needle pressing against the flesh of Cole’s exposed brain, and everything blacked out.

+=+=+=+=+

When Cole came to again, his head was distinctly all put together again—but he still had no eyes.

It felt like his head had been wrapped with wool, though, or at least something was missing. Like there was something Cole was supposed to be aware of that just… wasn’t there.

He could feel the rest of his body lying limply on the cot, mechanical heart still ticking away, so it wasn’t that he’d been cut off from all sensation. And though his eyes were still gone, that was altogether an entirely different sensation than what had Cole so puzzled.

It was as if Cole couldn’t even remember what was missing—

Oh.

Oh.

Of course. Cole relaxed, the conundrum solved. The Dollmaker had removed all memory of Cole’s suffering in his living life, cutting out what- or whoever had hurt him and left him behind. Cole was no longer burdened with the memory, which should only add to his beauty, now.

He still couldn’t see, though, eyelids still stitched back. But Cole trusted the Dollmaker would fix that soon enough.

Indeed, he could faintly hear the Dollmaker scuttling and skittering around the workshop, the gentle clink of tools being sorted through as it prepared the next step.

The scuttling moved closer, the only warning Cole got before something was poking into his eye sockets, toying with the wires that had replaced Cole’s optic nerves.

He didn’t flinch, though, because he was a very good doll.

“Right then,” the Dollmaker muttered, “Everything seems in order…” It withdrew whatever it had been poking Cole with, leaving Cole once again in eyeless suspense—

Something metal was pressed into the left socket, the Dollmaker deftly screwing in what Cole would later realize was a special lens set. Cole had only a moment to contemplate the new half-vision before the other “eye” was screwed into place.

A few more movements, and Cole’s eyelids—which he belatedly realized had been replaced with something more shutter-like—were freed up.

Cole blinked, brain adjusting to the new visual input it was receiving.

The Dollmaker smiled. “Much better, isn’t it? These special eyes can see much more than your old ones could, and are the same pretty shades!”

Cole smiled back.

“Don’t move yet, though.” The Dollmaker cautioned, Cole resuming limpness at the command. “I’ve still got to put in your voicebox.”

Ah, so that was why Cole’s throat had yet to be sewn shut.

As the Dollmaker busied itself with setting up Cole’s new voicebox, Cole busied himself with familiarizing himself with his new eyes. If he concentrated, he could make the lenses in there move in the right direction to zoom his vision in or out.

It felt like there might be more they could do, but Cole was mostly trying to get used to the basic capabilities of his eyes. No need to get into the fancy stuff just yet.

The Dollmaker set the voicebox in Cole’s throat, nestling it in the stuffing and anchoring it in place with several threads.

“Testing…” It muttered, “Say yes if this works, okay?”

Cole nodded his head just the slightest.

The Dollmaker grabbed a metal octagon and pulled on it, revealing it to be attached to a string fed first through a leather strap and then into the voicebox.

Cole jolted at the sensation of something in his throat, a slurred and soft “Yes” escaping his lips.

His eyes whirred softly as they widened, the realization that he could speak leaving him stunned.

“Yes!” He shouted, amazed at the sound of his own voice. “Yes, y—”

Cole’s voice cut off as the string finished retracting, the metal octagon resting against the leather strap like a charm on a collar.

Oh.

It was like those older dolls, Cole realized, where pulling on the string made them play a pre-recorded line until the string finished retracting.

Except his string being pulled meant he could speak.

The Dollmaker nodded, satisfied with the voicebox, and got to stitching Cole’s throat back together. Once that was done, it took the leather strap—now revealed to be a pretty choker—and fastened it around Cole’s neck, disguising the metal ring attached to the voice box as a simple charm, a pretty silver octagon on a pretty black collar.

“Now then,” The Dollmaker began, its hand pushing Cole to sit up and get off the cot, “Let me explain a bit about your new voicebox and the rules concerning its use.”

Cole stood and listened animatedly, determined to be the best doll.

+=+=+=+=+

The Doll House, as the Dollmaker called it, was a lovely place to stay—soft and pretty and full of all sorts of toys for Cole to fiddle with when the Dollmaker was out collecting supplies or conducting business of some sort.

Cole was busying himself cleaning the living room, now, confident enough in his mobility now that he’d had ample experience maneuvering his new body.

The metal charm that allowed him a voice hung securely from his neck, the collar it rested against completing the look of the downright lovely black dress Cole was wearing, lace and all.

Outfits were crucial to being a pretty doll, after all.

He could have chosen another outfit, today, but sometimes it was nice to wear a skirt. And Cole didn’t see why he couldn’t—The Dollmaker said that if it was in the closet or dresser, then it was there for Cole to wear. And the dress and leggings had been there, tempting enough that Cole chose to wear them today.

He was organizing one of the shelves, sorting the various baubles the Dollmaker had made.

He wasn’t very good at decorating, but the point here was to have fun and keep himself occupied, which Cole could do.

Every so often Cole glanced at one of the many mirrors throughout the Doll House, making sure nothing was out of place there, either.

But he remained as perfect and pretty as he had been once the Dollmaker had finished him fully. The seam down the middle of his face was near invisible if one wasn’t looking for it, but the seam did become visible down his throat and chest purely because the Dollmaker thought it was pretty.

And Cole agreed! The gold thread stood out wonderfully against his dark skin, arranged in artful patterns by the Dollmaker’s hands. The threads along his arms and legs were done up in orange, to mimic the magmatic energy Cole used to summon.

Cole admired himself in the mirror only a moment longer—the Dollmaker had really done some exquisite work—before returning to his self-assigned tasks.

He’d moved onto rearranging the hallway decor when the Dollmaker returned, scuttling along the carpet.

Cole smiled in greeting, but the Dollmaker skittered past in a rush.

“Change into something older, that can handle blood,” It ordered, scuttling along the walls and ceiling in what Cole was fairly sure was excitement.

“We’re going to the workshop.”

+=+=+=+=+

Cole entered the workshop a step behind the Dollmaker, only to stop.

There was a girl on the cot.

There was a girl, maybe in her twenties, on the cot, strapped down and struggling, blonde hair a frazzled mess and face sticky with tears.

Cole approached the cot slowly, the Dollmaker urging him forwards.

The girl seemed more aware of what was going on around her than Cole had been, when the Dollmaker had first strapped him down and started cutting into him. Cole looked to the Dollmaker in confusion.

“Well, of course I’ve not dosed it with the pain-muffler juice.” The Dollmaker explained, catching Cole’s unsaid question, “This is a practice dummy, not a Special Project. And that painkiller poison is expensive to make.” It scuttled off to go through its charts and tools, while Cole looked at the cot’s occupant.

The girl looked at Cole with wide eyes. “Who’re you?” She sniffed, on the verge of tears.

No, wait, she was already crying.

Cole didn’t respond to her question, though, seeing as he couldn’t talk unless his string was pulled.

And then the Dollmaker appeared at his side as though it had always been there, and the girl started to shake. “Oh god,” she sobbed, hysteria tinging her voice, “What is that?”

Cole frowned. He wasn’t sure what her problem was. The Dollmaker was really very nice.

Speaking of, the Dollmaker scuttled up next to Cole, handing the doll a pair of scissors.

“Your apprenticeship begins today.” The Dollmaker tittered, one of its many hands on Cole’s back. “We’ll start by cutting a throwaway subject open and exploring everything wrong with the design.”

Cole looked at the girl, who had gone paler and paler the more the Dollmaker spoke.

She might have been pretty, once, with those pretty brown eyes and round face.

The Dollmaker pushed at Cole’s back. “Go on.” It ordered, “I’ve marked where you should cut with a marker, don’t be shy now.”

Cole stepped further forwards, holding the scissors awkwardly.

The Dollmaker said that the girl was a practice dummy, which Cole was pretty sure meant she wouldn’t get to be fixed up like he was.

“Please,” The girl sobbed, before noticing the golden threads on Cole’s neck half-hidden by his choker, “oh god.” Cole regarded her, not sure which line to start with.

The girl squirmed, straps holding her still. “C’mon,” she pleaded, “That… that thing hurt you too, right?” She attempted a smile, but it came out as more of a grimace. “Help me out and I’ll help you get away from it.”

Cole frowned.

The girl relaxed a bit in her perceived victory. “Just undo the straps,” she whispered, “Cut them with the scissors, even, just let m—”

Whatever else it intended to say was cut off as Cole drove the scissors into its throat, trying to follow the line the Dollmaker had marked there.

Best if the subject couldn’t speak anymore.

Slamming the binder down on his desk, Levi ran his fingers through his hair. “ WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN!”

The guard kept his eyes locked on the older, learning from past mistakes that eye contact is key.

“ Both boys are sick sir. The incubus and the angel.”

Levi took a deep breath and walked across the room to finish packing. Throwing clothes in suitcases instead of folding them.

“ I’m not going to be here for two days.. why did they choose to get sick now?”

The guard kept his mouth shut. Now was not the time to try and correct his boss.

“ the stupid animals! They knew I was leaving for a few days! They knew it! The fuckin-“

He started to choke on his saliva.

“ ehm. I want you and milson to watch the incubus and the angel.. can I trust you to do your job Aaron? Actually, call milson in here, his dorm is 175. You have 5 minutes.”

Rushing down the halls, Aaron looked for his friends dorm room, truth be told he didn’t need directions or instructions, they had already known one another.

“ milson. Levi needs you in headquarters now.” Milson didn’t look up, he kept his eyes on Grayson, head in his lap and caramel face flushed.

He turned to find Micha on the door frame. His head resting against the chair in micha’s room. Slowly his head shot up, noticing Aaron at the door and throwing his warm hands around the black pants leg.

Even the bond is off.. it’s never off.

Micha whimpered as he snuggled against the warmth of Aaron. Wings sprawled out and dragged against the floor, too weak to grab and use them, much less put them away.

Grayson coughed roughly, his mini black wings fallen against milsons lap, the warmth spreading even throughout the clothing they both wore.

Aaron bent down to hug Micha, the boys needed all the love and care that they could get, due to the bond that they shared.

Milsons walkie talkie glew in the dimly lit room, levis voice sounding rough and raspy

“ boys. Scratch the last order. I’m going to check and see that your all in the same room. Then I’m heading for my flight. If you're not there with the incubus and the angel before I get there.” The sound cut off on an open threat.

The older men scrambled to make their beloved look presentable. Wiping their face with wet cloth and sitting them upwards on the beds provided.

Milson and Aaron then had a more difficult challenge. “ you have to put your wings away guys..” it was said in a kind and reassuring way, milson hopefully being able to persuade them with words.

Micha whimpered out in pain, not having the energy to put them away after hiding them for so long.

Too long.

Aaron plopped Micha in his lap. “ focus on the energy we share hun.. really focus on it.” Micha closed his eyes and sighed. Gold Magic falling onto the olders lap. “ amazing job hun, keep trying okay..?”

Grayson was dazed off into space. His head bobbing forwards and backwards fighting sleep and passing out. Milson gave a face pat to get slight attention from the other. “ you have to focus grayson. I know it’s hard buddy but please.. please try and focus.” Grayson started right through milsons eyes. His brain and mind trying to work through the fog.

“ t-tail.”

Milson slowly rubbed his tail up and down, causing a mini whine to fall out the Youngers mouth. Less of a sexual whimper and more of a comfort moan..“focus on the tail. Then put your wings away.”

Grayson closed his eyes.

Levi bursted the door open. He saw both guards dressed in uniform sitting down at the table. While the hybrids lay in bed, looking like normal humans. No wings, no tail, no horns.

Levi screamed, drawing whimpers and whines from the two youngest.

“ you bitches! When I get back… you're dead.”

He slammed the door on the way out.

Graysons breathing picked up, startling coughs racked his body and his tail swished ferociously. “ I - I *gasp* don-don’t wanna die!”

Milson quickly rushed over and crawled in the bed with Grayson. Running his hands through his hair.

“ you not gonna die hun.”

Grayson turned to snuggle his head against milsons chest. Slowly dozing off.

He leaves work in a haze, exhausted and dirty and still a bit bloody. All he really wants is to curl up in bed and sleep for as long as humanly possible, but his current bed is his and Juliette’s couch, which is comfortable enough, but not comforting. And that is what he wants most, he reflects, too tired to even be embarrassed about it - he wants comfort. Preferably in the form of another person. 

Juliette, obviously, is out of the equation on this one. But there are other people in his life, which is how Nick finds himself parked outside of Hank’s house half an hour later, barely aware of having decided to drive there at all. 

It isn’t until he’s knocking on the door that he realizes he doesn’t exactly know what to say when Hank opens it - it’s 8:30 on a Tuesday, and he has absolutely no reason to be here.

He’s half considering turning and leaving and going home to the couch and being miserable when the door swings open. “Hey,” Hank says, his voice sounding only slightly less tired than Nick feels. He steps aside and gestures for Nick to come in without even asking what he’s doing here. 

“Are you okay?” is the only thing Hank does ask, after the two of them have settled onto his couch. Nick looks at him in the low light and considers lying. But if he’s just going to lie about this, then why had he bothered coming over here at all?

“Not really.” It’s as close to no as he can get, and even this feels like too much, feels like laying himself bare.

“What can I do?”

Nick shrugs. A hug might be nice, he thinks, but he can’t - he can’t ask for that. 

“Have you eaten?”

“No.” He’s been too busy, too stressed, too full of adrenaline, too focused. He isn’t even really hungry, though - in fact, the thought of food makes him feel slightly nauseous. 

“Alright, well, I just heated up some soup not too long ago. It’s not the best, but it’s warm and filling,” Hank says. 

Nick starts to protest, but Hank just says, “you’re eating,” and five minutes later he’s sitting in front of a steaming bowl of soup and realizing that he might be a little hungry after all.

Normally, he’d eat the bowl in just a few minutes, but tonight he’s so exhausted that even lifting a spoon is hard work, and the soup is nearly cold by the time he finishes. 

He gets up and puts his empty bowl in the sink, managing that task just fine. But then he turns around and the room tilts and he’s stumbling, and then Hank’s arms are around him and he’s saying, “whoa, I got you, you okay?” and he’s warm and safe and oh, there’s that comfort Nick has been hoping for. 

He relaxes slightly into Hank’s arms, bringing his own arms up, the hug he’d been too himself to ask for coming about naturally. They don’t hug much, the two of them, and it probably should feel a bit awkward, but it doesn’t. It feels natural, the way they fit together, and it’s so nice that Nick can feel tears forming at the corners of his eyes (which, under any other circumstances, he’d be extremely embarrassed about). But he hasn’t been held like this in a while, not since everything with Juliette, at least, and he thinks that he could probably stay like this forever. 

At any rate, they stay like this for several minutes, until Nick starts to fall asleep standing up. 

“Let’s get you to bed,” Hank says, stopping Nick from falling over yet again. “I don’t need you falling asleep on me in the middle of my kitchen.”

Nick is too tired to think to ask, what bed?, which is how, five minutes later, he finds himself buried beneath Hank’s thick comforter, in a pair of Hank’s pajamas, with Hank himself lying next to him. He thinks that this is something else that should feel very awkward, but again, it doesn’t. 

As they lie there in the dark, Nick shivers, somehow cold even now, and Hank whispers, “come here.” And they’re already this close, and they’re past some sort of point of no return, so Nick does. Hank’s arms are just as warm and comforting as they’d been a few minutes before, and Nick falls asleep almost immediately.