psychoshenanigans | Skeleton City // PSL

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Skeleton City // PSL

They call it the "Market", and it's always buzzing like a hive. The vast caverns are warmed by the hundreds of bodies all hauling, shouting, pitching, laughing, exchanging things from one hand to another. Even more people stroll up above, their voices lost in the tangle of bridges made of stone and wood and metal. The place is lit by dozens of electric signs, spilling brightwarm colors where the hanging lanterns cannot reach.

There is a lot to look at. One person seems to trade a bolt of rich red cloth for some nails and hinges. One man is trying very hard to convince another that the chicken he is holding is worth at least three bags of grainmeal. And then there is whatever Phalanx is holding, which they most certainly did not trade for, and it most certainly leads to someone reaching out over their stall table and grabbing them harshly by the arm.

"Hey, you little theif!" Says an irate, heavy-set woman, "What do you think you're doing?"

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Robin watches them crush this card as close to their chest as they can manage. He feels a pang of sympathy for them, wondering in that abstract, half-aware way that he does, if Phalanx ever gets lonely. With so many of them all crammed into one space, it's probably the opposite--but that doesn't stop the thought from crossing his mind all the same.

"Hm..." He tries to think of a good answer for a moment, tipping his head to the side. Spirits are tricky, and he is a King, not a God. He can predict and theorize the mindset of his subjects as a whole, but ultimately, it is still up to each individual to make their own decisions. This spirit has come to the card through a fortune teller's bidding, and who knows how long it will be until it decides the task is no longer worth the effort.

Without so much as a word of warning, he reaches forward, aiming to touch the back of the card with just a couple of his fingers. The skin of his palm splits open as he does--not gushing or tearing dramatically, but subtly slicing itself open from the inside, the blood held in place by his own mysterious power. The slice is in the shape of a near-perfect circle, with some other lines and strange runes cutting through the inside.

"Not for a while," he says, giving some energy (and a silent prayer) into the spirit currently inhabiting the card. He only needs to touch it for a second before the spell is complete, and his hand starts stitching itself back up again like nothing had happened.

"...So should I just..." Vincent speaks up, now bothered by the smell of fresh blood out of nowhere, "...go...? Because if you two are just going to talk about cryptic shit, I don't need to be here."

Phalanx is watching with an abstract sort of focus--somewhere between paying more attention to the subtle things going on than would be considered natural, and completely distracted, until Vincent's interjection nudges them out of it.

"Crypts," Phalanx corrects in Vincent's direction, before pulling the card away from themself and flipping it around so they can place their fingers on the back like Robin had done.

"I wish I could keep it."

"Cryptic," Vincent corrects Phalanx's correction, as if Phalanx misheard him. That probably isn't the case, but that doesn't occur to Vincent until several long seconds after he's already said it.

"I know," Robin says to Phalanx's other comment (though it sounds a little like he's responding to Vincent), "But we'll just have to do our best while we have it here."

After this, the demigod reaches out to playfully run his fingers through their hair. "Speaking of that, are you still interested in sewing? Or has the moment passed?"

There's a definite pause while Phalanx processes Robin's question, but as soon as something clicks, they're sitting up straight again and forgetting all about the card. And their sleeves fall over their hands again during the rearranging, so it's probably only a matter of seconds before that card disappears entirely.

"It won't." Phalanx sounds sure about this fact. "We're interested. I'm interested."

Though, judging by the way that Phalanx starts aimlessly looking around themself, they have lost track of all traces of pins, needles, threads, cloth...

"Really?"

Suddenly, Robin's face lights up and a bright grin appears on his face. Vincent must hear it in Robin's tone, because the taller man looks a little startled in Robin's direction.

Robin doesn't seem to notice. He'd assumed that Phalanx wouldn't remember, but now he springs up off the couch, darting around the arm to duck back into Vincent's bedroom.

"I'll find something!" he announces on his way, leaving Phalanx and Vincent alone again. The sounds of drawers being dragged open and bags being shoved over fill what would otherwise be an awkward silence.

Vincent reaches into the bag behind him again, tentatively chewing on another fried newt.

"You uh, want one?" he offers, after a moment, while Robin is busies himself with being insane in the back room.

Vincent can't see, but Phalanx is leaning in closer to look at the questionable offering. Their voice sounds closer.

"Lizards? Their... tails fall off. And they hold on. Hang. Hanging? With claws?"

They sound skeptical. Probably.

"Nah," Vincent can't see, so he dismisses the claim easily and casually, "These are for eating."

As if that somehow fixed all of whatever problem Phalanx may or may not have had.

It... may have actually fixed all of Phalanx's concerns, yes. Because right after that, there's a little tug on the skewer as a newt is plucked from the lineup.

And, a few moments later, Vincent can hear some tentative crunching.

There's a little sound as Vincent has one of the newts taken from his hand--but it's mostly the soft surprise of unexpected physical interaction, and certainly not any concern with having to give up one of these crunchy snacks. He'd prefer that they eat, since he's not sure Robin will remember to feed them without prompting anyway.

The newt tastes pretty good. Surprisingly airy, for something that was once filled mostly with liquid. It goes fast. Has an interesting texture.

"You ever had these before?" Vincent asks, mouth full of said newt snack.

Phalanx also makes a sound, though this one is of faint, disgruntled surprise despite the pleasant flavor. Whoever still has memories in there is finding it hard to believe that they're eating a lizard.

"A tail, once. I tried..." They pause and gesture aimlessly at the blind man instead of bothering with words. "...But, it was just a tail. Just tails. We always scream, I think."

"Damn," Vincent says in response, not sure how else to answer that.

There's another pause before Robin reappears from the back, finally having found some fabric for Phalanx to play with. It's not particularly colorful (dark grey) and may actually have been quickly formed from one of Vincent's old shirts (industrious!), but it will be enough for them to stay occupied for a while, at least.

"Okay, here," Robin scoots around the edge of the couch, sliding back into his spot like he'd never left. He holds the fabric out for Phalanx, "And the pins are in your pocket, on the outside. And you also need... a needle, right? And thread?"

"Thread-needle," Phalanx mumbles, while they struggle to follow Robin's direction. "Thread and needle..."

Like they had when confronted with sewing before, Phalanx focuses up (in some sense) more quickly than they usually do. One hand autonomously roots around for the pocket that supposedly has pins in it, while the other one checks a sleeve for where they remember them being at a some earlier point.

Once they do find the right pocket, they pull out a handful of sharp objects and ignore a few small stab-wounds in order to look for a needle. And without a better source of thread, the next order of business is to start picking at the ripped edge of the shirt to try and unravel a string or two out of it, entirely focused on the task...

Robin watches this struggle with interest, now excited for any chance to help Phalanx along in remembering their sewing instinct from earlier. He heard them say I, so he knows this is important.

So it doesn't bother him at all to get back up again. "Hang on," he says, drifting towards the bathroom, "I'm pretty sure there was a spool or something that fell out of your things last night..."

This time, Vincent doesn't chat. He just continues stuffing lizards in his mouth, chewing through them with startling speed. Robin comes back pretty soon--the spool was a lot easier to find than his fabric solution from earlier, and soon he is handing Phalanx a little, shiny metal spool with white thread on it.

"Here."

Muscle-memory snatches the spool from Robin without hesitation and threads the needle with only a little bit of fumbling. Without a word, Phalanx aligns the torn edges of the shirt, leaves a little bit of seam allowance, and begins to sew.

It's a perfect repeat of earlier that morning--Phalanx forgets the rest of the world in favor of zooming in on little stitches, trying to make them neat and perfect despite the fact that they're going nowhere. Getting lost in the process without a reason or goal to guide it; a perfect echo of something that must have been useful in some other place and time.

"Look at that," Robin muses, watching the collection of spirits hone right back in on their repetitive little task, just like they had out in the dirt a dozen levels above.

"Can't," remarks Vincent, finishing off another newt. It makes Robin laugh.

"They're sewing," is Robin's explanation to Vincent, "And they're good at it, too."

"Huh."

For a minute, that seems like all that the giant plans on saying. He's not even pretending to look at either of them at this point, and crosses his arms for lack of anything else to do with them. But then he has an idea, which he announces towards the ceiling:

"Maybe you could put 'em to work while he's... uh, they're here. Keep putting holes in my shirts, and all."

Halfway through Vincent's remark, Phalanx's focus suddenly breaks, and they look up from their work with big, startled brown eyes.

"To work. Work, work." Phalanx points at Vincent but looks insistently at Robin. "Working."

Robin may have had some response for Vincent, but it is overruled in favor of the gesturing in front of him. He remembers this from earlier, too.

"That's right," he says, though whether this is in response to Phalanx or his own recollection isn't entirely clear. He rests an arm along the back of the couch so that he can prop his own chin up against a folded hand. "Sewing is working? What you did for work?"

Again, he isn't sure, but it's a place to start.

As realization dawns over Phalanx's face, color and texture begins to return to their hair, turning from limp and pale to wavy and brown. Their skin, their eyes, everything seems to fill with a little more life.

They point at Robin this time and nod enthusiastically. "For work. Sewing is working."

It's a little exciting, watching this realization trigger the change. He leans in a little, feeling just as enthusiastic, smiling against his own hand.

"Shyn lit'fem'j?" he asks, the words strangely understandable as a direct, 'to whom am I speaking?'.

The smile that crosses Phalanx's face is a normal one. A little crooked, a little shy--it's the expression that a normal, living human would give at a question like that.

"Me." Of course. Why would Robin even ask?

Robin laughs. Maybe he's only mirroring--but he leans further against the couch, relaxing, also smiling like he's practically normal.

"I was looking for a name, silly."

Vincent, who is still standing nearby, slowly reaches an arm back into the paper bag so that he can munch on another fried newt.

At first, Phalanx again reacts like a normal human might at being asked such an obvious question. Their smile widens, seeming amused but patient, and they open their mouth to respond.

And that's where things go wrong. They reach for something that they know should be there, but lose their balance when they hit dead air. Each beat of it is there on their face--the pause where the answer doesn't fall out of their mouth like it should, a pang of confusion, the smile disappearing as their mind gropes into a blank space where things had made sense only a moment ago.

Phalanx's eyes search Robin's face, frantic for an instant, before going black as they glance off to the side. Then, it's back to the usual, vague air of confusion as they look aimlessly out into the rest of the room, seeming lost.

He watches the entire time, patiently waiting for changes, testing the limits of what Phalanx can and cannot remember from this person's life. When their eyes change to black again and they look lost, he reaches out to catch the side of their face, guiding it back to look at his own.

"Hey, you're okay." His expression is soft, his tone apologetic, "Sorry, I shouldn't have distracted you like that."

When Phalanx is guided back, they smile again, but it's only a reflection of what they see on Robin's face. They're alright, but they're not whole. Just a peaceable ghost.

"Like that, like that," they murmur. The fabric and threaded needle is still held in their lap, forgotten.

"Just like that," Robin says back to him. But before they can bounce off each other for too long, he glances down at the discarded sewing project.

"Hey," he repeats exactly what he'd said earlier, "Are you still interested in sewing?"

Skeleton City // PSL

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