#notaperson

A doll climbing in a tree!

And its witch laying on the grass under it!

She is reading a book, a very old book, a book about flowers.

The doll is at the top of the tree now, the highest point in all directions.

Its an old combat doll, sniper class. Formerly equipped with long range weapons and stealth tech.

The doll keeps its witch safe, always looking keeping on lookout, even out here in the warm sunshine.

The witch knows no danger will come. But she enjoys seeing the doll joyfully climbing about.

The two are safe now. The war has long since passed this region.

The witch gave the doll a new Purpose when the military tossed it away.

The witch whistles thrice, and the doll climbs back down the tree. It stands next to the witch, waiting.

“Time to go back home sweetie. You did so good protecting me today, my doll”

Back home the two go, the doll half a step behind its witch, still on the lookout for signs of danger.

A doll that is a vampire.

It does its best to resist its urges. Its witch's magic and potions help a lot with that, but they can only help so much.

Today is especially hard. It just needs to make it through today, and the urge will pass, it just needs to hunt - Its witch grabs it.

And she hugs it close.

And she is

Intoxicating.

But it mustn't! It can't... It can't keep relying on her for every time it gets to be this way! It can hunt tonight, it just needs to -

"It's okay, it's okay. Let me help you."

"Please, little doll?"

It's...

It's too much.

It opens its mouth -

And

It

Bites.

And her blood.

She fills its mouth.

Warm.

Vibrant.

Laced with magic.

She floods through it.

And she drags it in her wake.

And it floats along her currents.

...

A vampire doll, asleep in its witch's lap, blood smearing the side of its mouth.

Its witch's wounds are already closing, save for a bit of her blood on her blouse.

A little woozy - but cradling the doll in her arms.

How did you receive your designation?

                Well this one feels a sense of utter sadness.

                So as we know, Twitter is burning into oblivion as this one types. All around the Twitter Verse, dolls and witches and angels and all the other non-persons of Empty Spaces are fleeing to new homes. The shelves are falling off of the walls and account after account is going dark. It is, in fact, a very sad experience to witness.                 When this one discovered Empty Spaces a bit over a year ago, it was intrigued, disturbed in all the best ways and utterly enthralled with how free and twisted and beautiful in its darkness traumaqueer posting was. Within a day, it was utterly addicted.

                Over the past year, it has been a part of this community and not a part at the same time thanks to irl stuff. It’s been able to post some truly great pieces of micro fictions, read even better pieces written by some amazing talents that put these porcelain hands to shame, and has gotten to meet some really cool not persons. In short, this one has been touched by this fucked up little community of ours.

                Then Twitter plows into a brick wall and blood and guts and death is everywhere and…                 It means, come on! It’s not like no one ever saw this coming…

                Now we’re all running to new places to hide, hoping that our little community will stay together. But if there’s anything that can be said about non-persons, it’s that we’re all very resilient, in an adoribly cracked kind of way.                 Empty spaces will go on, it will thrive, and the dolls and moths and angels and drones and witches and all of the other empty beings will continue to populate and spread. Will there be changed? Absolutely. Change is an inevitability of existance, of purpose.

A witch and a doll on a train

Too many people. Too much noise.

The witch holds their doll’s hand close

The doll senses the witch’s pain

It puts its hand on the witch’s head

Guiding their head to rest on its shoulder

The witch listens to the clockwork in their doll

The doll pets their head, smooth and slow

Just as slowly, the witch relaxes, the tension flowing away

The witch’s heartbeat slowing, becoming in sync

The sounds grow distant, the people fade away

Until only the tick, tick, tick of the doll can be heard by the witch

"Do they remember?"

Celestice turns, the unusually wide brim of her hat wobbling slightly. It never fails to catch my eye, her hat: I've never seen her without it. I wonder if she ever finds it cumbersome...

"Remember what?"

"Sorry, remember who they used to be."

She leans back into her chair, the wood creaking. She raises her cup to her lips absent-mindedly - then pulls it back, gazing at the dish as if it had offended her.

And she leans down to hand the cup to a doll that I hadn't even noticed approach.

A smile spreads on its face before it turns away.

She folds her arm as she waits, clearly somewhat miffed, as the doll disappears nearly as silently into the kitchen.

It looked so happy when Celestice gave it the cup...

"Well. It depends on the doll."

…

Silence passes between us. I can hear the stove being lighted. 

A fresh cup every time she asks.

"How about that one? The one that took your cup?"

"Rhodon? It remembers. It used to be a lawyer."

An image of a doll questioning a witness flits in my mind.

"... Do you think it could fight a case if you asked it too?"

A chuckle escapes from her. A sweet dulcet tone. I never get tired of her cadence.

"Without a doubt. Granted, it probably wouldn't understand as much of it, but I'm certain it could."

The doll, Rhodon, returns with a cup in hand, its steps much less quiet for the weight of the cup. Celestice reaches down and takes it from the doll, patting its head, whispering "Good doll", and its smile this time is bigger than before.

And my heart yearns.

"Would you like a refill, Elle?"

And her voice returns me to the present.

To some degree, at least.

"Oh, yes, please."

Far from myself, I reach down and hand the cup to Rhodon. That same smile, that same eager gait, that same enthusiasm.

...

I bite the inside of my cheek.

"Why do you ask?"

"Oh, I'm just a bit curious."

It isn't just curiosity - but I can't admit that.

"Well, if you're a bit curious, I could let you experience it first-hand."

My heart stops.

I know my face just paled.

I know my expression just changed.

...but she's drinking from her cup, her eyes are closed. She didn't see.

I remember to breathe.

"Isn't that a lot of work? I know that magic's always been hard on you..."

I just realized I'm gritting my teeth.

"You're not wrong. Guess we shouldn't."

…

Silence splits the space between us as she nurses her drink.

...

The tiny footsteps of Rhodon bearing a cup with tea.

Celestice takes the cup from it, and places it nearer to me.

Then she leans back over.

She pets the doll.

A whisper.

"Good doll."

The doll smiles.

...

"Doll, send Ytrei to my study. I'll be along after I finish talking with Elle."

"Yes Miss!"

That happy enthusiasm.

...

I'm jealous of a doll.

"Oh, and take your time!"

"Yes Miss!"

...

She raises her cup high as she drinks.

It is empty when she sets it down.

...

Then the silence between us disappears with a snap of her fingers - along with sounds I didn't realize I could hear.

"Elle."

Her voice is vivid in the absence.

"We've known each other for years."

I can feel myself shaking.

"You never turn down a chance to see my magic."

...

"What happened?"

I breathe deep, the effort more laboured than I'd like.

But... That's my normal, isn't it?

"I'm just a little scared. Or maybe excited. I don't know."

She stares at me, waiting, expectant.

Her gaze is piercing - just like the lavender of her irises.

…

"But I've... I've got a time limit now."

I put forward a smile that I know is a nervous reaction from a hope to appear strong to avoid making anyone feel as if they need to help me because I can't pay them back.

An irrational smile.

"So... Yeah. That's it."

…

My hands fidget for something, anything distracting, and I find the teacup.

It's still warm. A little too warm.

It will be perfect when the time comes.

"The dolls... They all asked for this, didn't they?"

She nods, the brim of her hat waving.

"I wouldn't do it otherwise."

And we settle into rhythm.

"Has one ever come back?"

"Twice, actually."

"What happened?"

"Well... Hm. The first, nothing big, just not a good fit. Caught it early before he spiraled. Called the experience refreshing but not for him."

"What about the second?"

"Didn't catch her before the spiral... And I'd like to leave it at that."

"That's fine."

...

"Would I be a good fit?"

...

"In most cases, I'd pass that kind of question off. I can't think for anyone, after all."

"Oh, sorry-"

"But you."

She stands and strides over to me - and she takes my cup and drinks from it.

"I'd take you."

She places the cup down half-full in front of me.

And I can see my reflection. 

Tired, unkempt, eyes red from crying.

And I can see the brim of her hat over me.

…

I look small compared to her.

And I can't help but smile at that thought.

"Besides. I'd do a much better job at keeping you alive than literally the entire world apparently."

I struggle to stifle a laugh, and it comes out in sputters anyway.

But it yields a smile from her.

"But... You know how I work. Even if I really want to break from my code right about now."

...

She was always so certain, so confident, so right, so knowing. As if she knew everything about everything and then some.

Everything about me and more.

But she always went by my word.

…

Always let me have my own voice.

Always let me find my own way.

Always let me have a say.

...

And now I don't want it anymore.

...

"What will you name me?"

"Lethe."

Oblivion and forgetfulness.

...

"A wonderful name for a doll."

I raise the cup to my lips -

And it returns the cup to the table, empty.

A wonderful first tea party! 

“Now... To my study! Ytrei is waiting.”

It had a nightmare. 

Dolls weren't supposed to have nightmares, but this one did. It was broken. Surely it was broken, and it needed to be fixed, and it needed to tell its Miss, to discipline it, to repair it, to make a good doll from the bad one that it is-

But as quickly as those solutions came, they were drowned out.

And, in silence, in darkness, in that false stillness, a most horrible imitation of what it so desperately wished to return to -

It could hear a familiar voice.

But it didn't want to hear the voice.

But it couldn’t help but hear that hauntingly familiar voice.

And it tried to shut out that harrowing sound, it needed to escape, to flee to its Witch, it hated to fail its Miss, but disappointing her was a far better fate than -

"Stop."

Its every movement ground to a halt, the abrupt cessation grating its joints like sand abrading skin - not skin, it didn't have skin, it was made of porcelain, not skin-

"Look at me when I'm speaking to you."

She looked into her- It, not she, it is not a person, it is not a person, it is a-

"How long are you going to play pretend?"

She grabbed her arm, and yanked her back, forcing her to look into her-

Miss.

Please.

Save it.

It is sorry.

Please make it stop.

It will be good.

Please-

"When will you realize?"

Her nails dug deep into her skin, blood weeping from the incisions, seeping into the frills and lace adorning her. She had worked hard to buy the dress - and now it was ruined by her traitorous self.

She should have known today wasn't safe. She should have waited for another time. She knew that her mother-

"You are a boy."

Her fingers tore through the fabric as it began to fall from his shoulders. It hurt worse than the deepening scars on his arms, his back, his legs, his neck - 

All at once, something clicked. The pain, the blood, the scars - none of that bothered him as much as the torn and stained fabric. He knew it inherently.

After all.

The fabric was worth more than him.

He just…

Forgot.

"God doesn't make-"

"Oh hush, certainly you weren't about to say 'mistakes', were you?"

A foreign voice, a foreign figure, stays her mother's hand. Her mother draws herself up away from her, loosing her grip to scowl at Miss… Miss… 

She couldn't remember Miss’s name.

…

Did she have a name?

"Don't think overmuch, sweetie, this isn't solvable by a doll."

It felt itself confused at Miss's words, surely it wasn't a doll - but… She told it not to think too much. So it wouldn't. Besides, even if it could remember what it was thinking about, it truly felt that listening was the right thing to do.

"Now, as for you, young lady…"

Miss turned to the Mother, which had suddenly become taller than it remembered - though its Miss was clearly taller (as expected of course!). It wasn't sure what the Mother was here for, but Miss certainly didn't think that the Mother belonged. As for the doll, it didn't really need to think to agree with Miss: that much came quite naturally, no thoughts necessary!

"I don't know about God, but I think that it makes for a rather fetching femme-aspected doll!"

Oh, Miss was referring to doll! It wasn't sure what had inspired the sudden declaration, such wonderful praise, but it was elated! It absolutely needed to earn Miss's unwarranted praise today, or it would never forgive itself…!

"And you, doll."

It froze, and it remembered all at once: it had done something wrong. It knew it had done something wrong, it needed to remember, it needed to learn so that Miss's discipline would be-

And then it was in Miss's hands - and, just as quickly held and hugged closely and tightly -

"Good doll."

"Wonderful doll."

"Adorable doll."

The praise poured like water from a bottomless ewer, each word striking the doll's already foundering thoughts deeper, delving it into a panicked fluster, the warmth of its Miss seeping into it, through it, within it, staining its ceramic body like copper, cobalt, and corundum colors glass, the flowing flux of her molten mana winding, winnowing through it's every emotion enunciated, every sought sensation, stealing it further, fathoms away from something that it didn't quite remember, that it didn’t care to remember - and how it yearned to lose itself, to be so utterly suffused by the soothing fragrance of its Miss that it could notion nothing more, save for serving her so long as it's artificial heart coursed, couried with her magicks, for so long as it could fallow fathom thought, all of its everything devoted endlessly, eternally to the unceasingly smothering love that saved it from the past that it had readily sundered, happily surrendered -

"Doll."

It returns to itself. It blinks twice, remembering itself. And it looks up at Miss, towering over it.

Miss stares at the doll, and it stares at Miss, waiting, still, silent, for instruction.

And then Miss speaks.

"I love you."

The doll smiles as does Miss, and it returns to its work as Miss returns to hers.

It already knows this.

A person walks past the display window.

They pause. They stare at it.

Their expression changes rapidly. Confusion. Fascination. Doubt. Decision.

The door chimes ring as they enter the store. They are now a customer.

The shopkeep looks up from his paper.

"Welcome. If you have any questions about the antiques, just say the word."

"I have a question, actually, uh..."

The shopkeep sets down his paper, and straightens his posture. He waits for the customer to continue.

"Um... That toy on the shelf."

The customer points to it.

The shopkeep follows the customer's gesture until he also looks at it.

An attentive expressions that shifts into a thoughtful one - that shifts into a slight frown - and then the shopkeep speaks.

"The automaton?"

The customer seems surprised.

"So it actually moves...?"

The shopkeep looks away from it.

"It doesn't. It's broken."

A look of confusion from the customer, the same as earlier.

"It is?"

The shopkeep sighs.

"Has been since when my great-grandmother ran this place, so about three centuries asofar."

A dozen seconds pass in silence. 

The shopkeep glances at the paper.

The customer speaks, retaining his attention.

"Where did your grandmother get it?"

The shopkeep takes a deep breath and sighs, leaning back in his chair.

"Well... I only have a story from my mom."

The customer nods.

"That's okay."

The shopkeep scratches the side of his face.

"Well then... A woman gave it to my great-grandmother to take care of. Said that she was going out for a spell, seeing about a errand or something. Left the thing here to keep it safe."

"Said that she would be back in a few days, and she just wanted to make sure that it was kept safe in the meantime. Couldn't bring the thing with her."

The shopkeep sits his head on a propped up arm. His eyes stare into the distance for a moment, trying to remember something.

He lights up as he remembers.

"Oh, that's right. Said it was her doll. Probably her comfort toy or something, like a favorite blanket. It still moved when we received it, but it’s stopped moving since then. Thing was probably expensive, so every generation has tried to fix it."

"None of us could get into it. No matter what the interior's like, the exterior’s impenetrable. Whatever it's made of, it's built to last, apparently much more than whatever's inside it."

He turns to look at it. A somewhat bitter expression, like a failed sell, a disappointed customer.

A look of derision - then of an idea.

"Tell you what. I'm not going to have kids, and its owner is long gone. You're the first person I've seen that's taken an interest... 300 Em-Ai, and the thing's yours."

And then he dons an expression of finality: no haggling.

The customer gains a look of shock - of consideration - of panic - a grimace - of decision - of doubt -

A resolution.

They speak.

"I'll take it."

The shopkeep nods as he reaches down for the DNA-scanner and card-processor.

"Biometric or proxy."

The customer bites their lip.

Another look of doubt - of regret - and then they suppress the feeling.

"Biometric."

The DNA-scanner finds its way to the table, and the customer places their finger upon it. Light illuminates their finger for a second - then it falls dark.

The shopkeep speaks.

"I'll box it for you."

He picks it up, and places it into a box, filling the empty space with paper insulation. He closes the opening, and the inside of the box goes dark.

A muffled voice as the box shakes: the shopkeep handing it over to the customer.

"Thank you for your purchase."

The customer is now its owner.

The box shakes again - and then falls into a steady rhythm: The owner walking away. The door chimes ring. The steady drone of the outside passes muffled into the box.

Its owner stops walking.

'You're not broken, are you?'

Its owner's thought passes into it.

And it passes a thought back.