#tfc ask

Pierrot

Pierrot was busy sharpening his daggers when you approached him — stomping your feet just a little, wearing an exaggeratedly concerned expression, almost too earnest to be real. You were joking, of course, but he noticed immediately that something was off. Without hesitation, he set the blades aside in some safe place nearby, his attention already fully yours, ready to soothe whatever sadness he believed had settled in you.

He tilted his head slightly, long pale hair following the motion, amber eyes warm and attentive as they searched your face.

“What is it, my love?” he asked softly. “Has something upset you?”

He extended his hands toward yours with care, claws already retracted, offering comfort in whatever way you might need.

“It’s nothing serious, but…” You hesitated, choosing your words carefully, suppressing the almost irrepressible urge to laugh. Sometimes he was unbearably gentle, in a way that bordered on incomprehensible. “I was just wondering if… if you would still love me if I were a worm, Pierrot. I think that maybe, if I were one, you wouldn’t care for me the way you do now.”

For a moment, Pierrot fell silent, his eyes shimmering with a sudden mix of confusion and contemplation. For some reason — one that nearly made you laugh again — he seemed to file the scenario away in some tender corner of his mind, considering it with the careful seriousness of someone determined to give the best possible answer; one that could properly express the magnitude of his love, already bordering on the absurd, much like the nature of your sudden question.

“If you were a worm,” he said at last, exhaling softly, resigned, “as strange as that may sound… I would kneel down to speak with you.”

He looked at you then, earnest as ever.

“Just as I can do now, for any reason at all, if you wish, my love.

You felt a bit embarrassed — he had an uncanny ability to be too kind, even when faced with something so ridiculous. Still, his answer was more than well received, and Pierrot’s face was promptly rewarded with several proud, affectionate kisses.

Harlequin

Harlequin was distracted with video games, wearing a rare and unexpectedly warm expression. It was almost childish, from a certain point of view. One hand mashed the controller buttons with eager intensity, while the other clumsily kept you close. With a partner so relaxed and teasing by nature, you decided to try and catch him off guard, baiting him with a question that was innocent… but not that innocent. You wanted to see how he would react.

You placed one hand on his shoulder, smiling mischievously. When he hesitated to look away from the screen, still deeply focused on the game, you poked him a little harder.

“Harley?” you hummed softly.

His green eyes finally lifted to meet yours, still overstimulated by the flashing visuals of the game moments ago, now colliding with your gentle, yet far too cunning gaze for his liking.

“What is it, dear?” he asked casually, his legs resting lazily against yours. “You know, that little shove kind of ruined everything. You distracted me and I lost this round. This game sucks!” Harlequin complained, his voice far too soft and mellow to sound genuinely accusatory.

You rolled your eyes quickly, smiling lightly.

“Don’t blame me or the game for your poor skills!” You took a deep breath before resting your chin on his shoulder. “I just wanted to ask you something, love…”

“I’m not that bad, alright? It’s just this damn controller.” He glanced at you, amusement flickering beneath his lazy posture. That day, his only intention was to stay close and quiet in your home. “A question? Go on, dear. Ask me your little question.”

“Would you still love me if I were a worm?”

Harlequin froze.

Completely still.

And then, after a brief pause, he laughed.

Laughed freely, unrestrained, almost childishly.

“A worm? Are you serious, dear?” he asked between breaths, barely containing his surprise and delight at the absurdity of the question. “What exactly would I do with you if you were a worm, my love? I mean, you know I’m crazy about you as you are, but a worm…”

He laughed a little more. You waited, eyes half-lidded, arms crossed.

“A worm, dear, would be a miserable creature. They’re damp, slippery, oddly sticky…”

“Damp, slippery, and oddly sticky, you say?” You tilted your head, smiling to yourself. “Like your tentacles, Harley. And I love you anyway.”

Harlequin fell silent instantly.

The projector still displayed the words GAME OVER, but now the message felt far more appropriate than before. Harlequin exhaled slowly, his arrogance dissolving bit by bit under the weight of your clever words. You always had a way of disarming him like that.

A tentacle crept near your waist, curling weakly around it, urging you closer in his own way — one that didn’t require words that would embarrass him even further. The man in green yielded.

“Alright, I suppose you win,” he muttered playfully, his face now brushing against your neck, hands stroking your clothed skin. “I think I could learn to love you… even if you were a pathetic little worm.”

He smirked softly.

“Though I wouldn’t trade this version of you for anything in this damned world…”

Jester

Jester’s clawed hands shuffled the deck with impeccable precision, performing tricks that never failed to impress. He had already defeated you three times in a row with irritating ease, and you were beginning to wonder whether spending your free afternoon on this pastime had been such a good idea after all. The circus leader raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by your struggle and far too pleased with his winning streak.

You sighed, resting your chin in your hand as he gathered the cards once more.

“Alright. You win. Again.”

A new silence settled between you, broken only by the sound of cards being shuffled — the deck jumping and slipping expertly between his diligent fingers.

“I know what you’re thinking,” you said quietly, your tone a mix of teasing and fragile honesty. “You’re probably wondering just how much worse I can get at this game.” You glanced at him. “I’m no strategist. You know that.”

Jester offered a rather wicked smile as he dealt the correct number of cards between the two of you. One of his hands then moved to rest beneath his chin, his gaze never fully leaving yours.

“You could certainly benefit from better training in the art of card games, my dear,” he replied smoothly. “Your current strategies are far too predictable — and far too poor.” His tone was as disarming as ever, his voice velvet-soft and barbed all at once, a combination uniquely his own.

“You talk about predictability?” You tilted your head slightly. “Then answer me this…”

He hummed absentmindedly to show he was listening, glancing down at the cards he’d been dealt. They seemed to be good ones, for his violet eyes gleamed with veiled mischief and quiet premonition.

“Would you still love me if I were some uncultured, strange little creature?” you asked lightly, the question ridiculous by nature; yet your stomach twisted strangely as you spoke, a flicker of hesitation and insecurity slipping through despite yourself. “Like a worm, perhaps?”

Jester let the cards fall delicately onto the table before him, his full attention snapping back to you. He tilted his head for a moment, then curved his lips into an ironic smile — half amused, half faintly displeased.

“A worm, my dear?” he asked. “Are you inquiring how I would react if you were my pet worm, is that it?” His hands reached for your face, brushing aside a stray lock of hair or briefly caressing your skin. His claws pressed lightly into your cheeks, deliberately testing their sensitivity. “What a nonsensical question.”

You leaned into his palm despite yourself, though a fleeting grimace betrayed just how embarrassed you felt inside.

“Just… just answer me, alright?” you murmured. “Please. I’d just like to know.”

“I would say I prefer a more conventional pet,” Jester replied coolly. “A cat, furry and calm. Or, with considerable effort, a dog. Dogs are far noisier, but they would serve me well.”

You stared at him, nearly incredulous. He continued nonetheless.

“Or even a pet such as you are now.” He leaned closer, his fingers grazing your lips. “Why change things, my love?”

You swallowed, hands lifting to your temples. Your lips trembled with a mix of anticipation and quiet disappointment. But then again — what else could one expect from someone like him?

“I asked if you would love me if I were a worm, not some other animal, Jester,” you countered, gently holding his wrist for a moment. “I mean… let’s just pretend.”

Jester sighed, as though weary of a game he still had no intention of abandoning.

“If you were a worm, I would keep you,” he said. The circus leader inched closer, his forehead nearly touching yours. His restless, proud eyes glowed with a deep shade of purple — one that betrayed his possessiveness. “You would still be mine. I would keep you inside a beautiful glass dome. And you would be the only sticky little thing worthy of my attention.”

You pulled back slightly to look at his face. He seemed quite satisfied with his own answer. You, on the other hand, felt an overwhelming urge to express your disbelief and an equally strong urge to laugh.

That was the greatest demonstration of affection he could offer in the context of this silly question: he would grant you the privilege of his attention.

And somehow, that was enough.

“Is that answer sufficient for you, my dear?” Jester asked, his hands sliding sinuously back to your jaw, then to the nape of your neck, coaxing you closer in that serpentine way only he possessed.

“Of course, Jester. Certainly.” You let out a soft laugh, stealing a quick kiss from his lips. “But the glass dome has to be very beautiful, then.”

Ticket Taker

Ticket Taker worked in silence as he organized a box filled with the circus’s colorful tickets. He had finished with the pink ones and was now arranging the blue. His white-gloved hands, ever diligent, moved with quiet grace — sorting, aligning, placing everything where it belonged. Tickets with poor printing or worn edges were set aside, ready to be discarded.

You peeked in from the doorway, holding a small plate of simple seafood — his lunch. Your beloved looked impeccable and admirable even among dusty boxes and scattered paper. Seeing him so focused nearly made you turn around and eat alone, unwilling to disturb him at all.

But the floor creaked softly beneath your careful steps.

“Come in, dear,” he said calmly, his voice steady and authoritative. “I saw you standing there.”

Ticket Taker allowed your presence with quiet discretion, barely lifting his gaze from his task.

“Bil… ah. Right. I just came to bring you lunch,” you replied quickly, setting the plate near the small table. “I didn’t realize you were so busy.”

You thought it might be best to leave him to his work, but the moment you mentioned going, he gestured for you to stay.

“Stay. I could use a bit of help.” His heterochromatic eyes shimmered in your direction, his words both a careful request and a veiled instruction. “The food smells wonderful. It seems you outdid yourself this time.”

You lowered your gaze toward the blue tickets so he wouldn’t notice the warmth rising to your face. His small compliments always had that effect on you, even when the subject was something as simple as seafood you knew he liked.

“I hope you enjoy it once we’re finished, my love,” you replied as evenly as you could. “Once we are finished, I mean.”

You watched him handle the colored papers with persistent care, occasionally handing him a new stack. He made space for you beside him, allowing you to work comfortably at his side. Ever the perfectionist, you noticed him correcting some of your arrangements now and then, but he never once sent you away.

Instead, the two of you shared a quiet, comfortable space in that small room. Ticket Taker’s presence needed no words to settle deeply into you — only his steady breathing and the light brush of your arms as you worked together.

It was you who hesitantly broke the silence. A small, fragile smile curved your lips as you spoke:

“You could probably do all of this with your eyes closed, couldn’t you?” You gestured toward the irregular, worn pile of tickets, the ones that would never be handed to visitors. “Even the useless, imperfect ones… you separate them according to their own lot.”

Ticket Taker listened attentively, his hands still sorting the final tickets. He was curious to see where you were going with this. You were observing him too closely, paying far too much attention to his mundane, everyday tasks.

“And what are you implying, dear?” he asked, looking at you. His gaze held no criticism, only curiosity.

You inhaled quietly, meeting his eyes.

“Have you ever thought about what to do when something isn’t useful enough?” you asked carefully. “I mean… something, or someone?”

Ticket Taker looked faintly puzzled, but answered nonetheless, his tone rounded.

“Well, my dear, you pointed it out yourself.” His clawed fingers gestured decisively toward the discarded pile to his left. “We separate what failed, what is no longer useful, from what is good. But what do you mean by someone?”

“What I’m trying to say, Bil, is… well…” You hesitated before finally asking, “A worm wouldn’t be very useful, would it? Would you love me, or at least keep me around, if I were a worm?”

Ticket Taker stared at you sharply, almost incredulous at the suggestion. In silence, he wondered what could possibly be going through your mind to inspire such a question.

“A worm?”

Then he truly seemed to consider it.

You shifted uncomfortably as you waited for his answer, crouched beside the dusty boxes.

“Courting a worm would be unfeasible, my dear,” he said at last. “But if you were one, efficient or not, you would be my responsibility. Mine to care for.” His hands rested gently on your shoulders, a subtle touch that grounded you instantly. “And I do not abandon my responsibilities.”

You were surprised by his answer. It wasn’t passionate or poetic, but it was kind in its own measured way. Your expression softened.

“So… you would tolerate me, even if I were something like a worm?”

He sighed deeply, shaking his head slowly.

“I have already answered your question, my dear.” Ticket Taker straightened, then extended his hand to help you up. “We are nearly finished here. Would you accompany me for a quick lunch?” His grip drew you a little closer as he waited for your reply.

You nodded, a satisfied smile settling on your lips.

“Of course, my love.”

Doctor

Your gloved hands brushed lightly against Doctor’s as the two of you worked with a nutrient-rich mixture for the plants he cared for so deeply. You knew this was something of a pastime for him, so you decided to help that day.

The redhead had brought out three plastic containers, arranged like a small domestic compost system, and now you were spreading nearly unrecognizable organic remains — fruit peels, dried leaves of various sizes, a bit of sand for drainage, anything he deemed useful — to create the perfect nourishing blend for his medicinal herbs: his small trinity of mint, lemon balm, and basil.

Each time you leaned over the compost, your shoulder brushed against the side of his torso, and Doctor seemed fully aware of it. Despite the quiet of the space, you felt oddly comfortable tending to his plants, quietly pleased to see him engaged in something that still held personal meaning for him on an intellectual level, at least. More than that, the activity was a relief precisely because it lacked the rigidity and sterility of the experiments he conducted alone in his cyan-colored circus tent.

Caring for something as fragile as plants demanded subtlety and patience — and contradictory as a creature like him might be, he possessed both. To help matters further, he seemed to hold an impressive knowledge of botany that rivaled his expertise in human anatomy and physiology.

The comforting calm between the two of you was often punctuated by Doctor’s keen observations. He instructed you carefully, guiding your hands from behind — adjusting your wrists lightly, correcting the pressure of your fingers — so the worm castings would spread more evenly across the soil.

You nodded along, increasingly drawn to the pleasant cadence of his dense explanations, the deliberate weight he placed on each vowel and consonant. The sound of his voice affected you more than the rational content ever could on its own.

When he shifted the compost container slightly, you snapped back to reality and tried to appear attentive, leaning against the counter.

“I see,” you said lightly. “Simple lives sustaining the entire food chain by producing nourishing matter, right? That’s what you said, wasn’t it, love?” You let out a small laugh.

To your surprise, Doctor seemed almost amused by your interest, stepping closer to you.

“You are absolutely correct, sweetie,” he said. “Entire systems depend on beings that will never be seen as essential.”

You savored the discreet compliment, feeling him draw near once more. That was when your eyes gleamed with a curious idea.

“Since you seem so fascinated by these little creatures, my love… what would you say if I were one of them?”

You nearly choked on your own laughter when you noticed the Doctor’s expression sharpen into focused, slightly uncanny concentration.

“Would you love me, or at least like me, if I were a worm?” you asked. “I mean, one of those soft, squishy little things that make up the mixture we just handled.”

He shifted his posture, genuinely thoughtful. One clawed hand rose to his chin in deep consideration.

“A clever trick, sweetie,” Doctor replied. “But value does not reside in form. It resides in function. And care does not depend on equivalence.” He adjusted his gloves with a hint of nervousness. “If you were, for some absurd reason, transformed into a worm, you would not be useless in the slightest.”

Doctor let out a warm laugh — a rare sound.

“If you were one,” he continued softly, “I would use all of my knowledge to ensure your survival. You would live safely among my plants.”

You shook your head in disbelief, a bright, satisfied smile spreading across your face. Leaning into him, you rested your head near his chest to look up at him properly. He returned your gaze, one arm wrapping around you.

Day -0 definitely has a biiiit more to it! I just felt like 3 minutes of gameplay was more than enough for one video (and you get the general idea of what happened).

I really want to get into the parts where MC meets the rest of the cast! Setting the scene is sooo crucial though.... :]