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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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?"

After everything, the question still manages to get a response, but it's not quite as enthusiastic or immediate as before. Something is probably getting very tired in there.

Phalanx still seems surprised at the topic and blinks into some semblance of focus, perking up as they look down at the sewing supplies. "Interested in sewing. Gets holes in his shirts."

Once more, their hands come to life and begin to sew, picking up where they'd left off in their aimless seam of stitches.

And this time, neither Robin nor Vincent interrupt them for a solid minute. Robin is content to lean back again, watching silently, thinking over the exchange. Vincent may or may not be doing the same, though he is the first to finally speak after time has passed.

"'Kay, I gotta get going." He shrugs, finally wandering back in the direction of his bedroom to get dressed, "Cybil wants me down at the station."

"Great," Robin says, not at all interested in whatever Cybil does or doesn't want, "We'll be here."

"Sure," is the only response before Vincent disappears entirely, though they can both hear him rifling through clothing and bags that Robin undoubtedly tossed into disarray.

As things settle around Phalanx, and they're needed less and less in the outside world, they fade into their work. They're not really looking at what they're doing. They're not really looking at anything. There isn't much present in their expression at all, as they let themself dissolve after all of that tiring back-and-forth.

Once their line of stitches finally reaches the other end of the fabric, they put one arm through the tube that they've now made, pull it up to their shoulder, and start tucking the edges into any snug space between other layers of cloth that they can--casually adding it to their outfit.

Robin had been watching this all thoughtfully from just a foot or two away--but watching Phalanx try to put the partly-dismantled shirt on around all the other clothing they already have on just cuts right to his sense of humor. His laugh is sudden, the kind that makes him scrunch his shoulders up and cover part of his face.

"Really," he grins through his fingers, "You'll sew half the house onto yourself, if I'm not careful."

Phalanx looks... lost over this remark. Instead of just blindly mimicking Robin's expression, they seem to have actually caught the fact that they're doing something that Robin finds funny. They look down at themself to try and figure out what it could be, but just don't see it.

"Sew half of it...?"

At least how they'd managed to tie themself into such an impenetrable fortress of rags is made clear, now.

"You don't think so?"

He tilts his head as he asks this, smiling past Phalanx's confusion. "I just think it's funny that you're trying to add a shirt on top of a coat, you see. It normally goes the other way around."

At about this time, Vincent wanders back out of the room, now with clothes on, a very large case strapped to their back. His next stop is the bag of food, or what's left of it, which he scoops into his arms with a crunching sound.

"I'll be back. Don't... I dunno, do anything I wouldn't do."

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Skeleton City // PSL

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