A test of survival (Ft. Kinger and his Obsessive friends)

The circus was unusually quiet, a rare occurrence in a realm defined by chaotic geometry and neon-soaked absurdity. The main stage stood under the perpetual, artificial glow of the big top, but the usual cacophony of Ragatha’s worrying, Jax’s pranking, and Pomni’s existential dread was absent. They were all tucked away in their rooms, or perhaps they had simply been blinked out of existence for the moment by their eccentric ringmaster.

Kinger stood alone before the stage, his hands floating detached from his purple velvet robe. His eyes, wide and perpetually vibrating with a frantic energy, darted from left to right. He looked like a man who had forgotten why he walked into a room, only to realize he wasn't sure if the room itself was real.

High above him, Caine descended from the rafters, his teeth clicking together in a rhythmic, unsettling chatter. The bubble, Bubble, floated lazily beside him, licking a stray piece of digital dust.

"Greetings, Kinger! My most... seasoned resident!" Caine boomed, his eyes spinning in opposite directions within his mouth-head. "I’ve noticed you’ve been looking a bit peaky! A bit drab! A bit like you’re waiting for the sweet embrace of a software crash!"

Kinger tilted his head so far to the side it nearly touched his shoulder. "Am I? I thought I was waiting for the teapot to whistle. But I don't have a teapot. Or a stove. Do I have a stove, Caine?"

"Better than a stove, Kinger! Today, you are the star of your very own solo adventure!" Caine threw his arms wide, sparks of digital confetti raining down. "A test of wits! A trial of patience! A grand excursion into the depths of the circus’s very own sub-layers!"

Kinger blinked, his pupils shrinking to pinpricks. "Will there be insects? I’ve been looking for a specific species of digital dark-beetle. They have very shiny shells, you know. Very aerodynamic."

Caine ignored him entirely, his grin widening until it looked painful. "It’s a game of strategy! A game of survival! A game of... well, let’s just call it 'Quality Time with Friends'!"

With a snap of Caine’s fingers, the world glitched. The vibrant reds and blues of the circus tent bled into a static-heavy grey. The floor dropped out from under Kinger’s feet, and for a split second, he was falling through a void of raw code.

Then, silence.

Kinger blinked. He was no longer in the main hall. He was sitting in a cramped, swivel chair behind a cluttered desk. The air was cool—colder than the rest of the circus. The only light in the room came from a flickering bank of monitors and the glowing buttons of a control panel. It was dark, a deep, heavy shadows that would have terrified anyone else.

But for Kinger, the darkness acted like a weighted blanket for his frayed nerves. The constant visual overstimulation of the circus usually kept his mind in a state of fractured panic. Here, in the gloom, the pieces of his thoughts started to click together. He felt... lucid.

"Oh," Kinger whispered, his voice steady. "It’s a security office. How quaint."

On the desk lay a single, neatly typed note. Kinger picked it up with a floating hand, squinting at the text.

WELCOME TO YOUR ADVENTURE, KINGER! the note read. To win, you must survive five nights in this facility. Your friends are very excited to see you! In fact, they’re obsessed! They want to keep you all to themselves. Use the cameras to track their progress. Use the doors to keep them out. But be careful—power is limited! If they get to you, the game is over, and you’ll be 'loved' to death!

Kinger hummed, a low, thoughtful sound. "Obsessed? Well, I am a very regal piece. It makes sense."

He turned to the monitors and began flicking through the camera feeds. The cameras showed various hallways, a kitchen, and a bizarrely decorated lounge.

In the first hallway, he saw Gangle. She wasn't wearing her tragedy mask; she was wearing a mask that looked suspiciously like Kinger’s own face, crudely drawn in crayon. She was clutching a framed photograph of Kinger standing by his pillow fort, stroking the glass with a ribbon-like hand.

"My King," she sobbed, her voice echoing through the tinny speakers. "The only one who understands the tragedy of existence. I’ll keep you in a box where nothing can ever break us."

Kinger shivered. "That’s... uncomfortably specific."

He switched to the kitchen camera. Ragatha was there, stirring a pot of something that looked like digital sludge. She was surrounded by dozens of photos of Kinger, pinned to the walls with sewing needles.

"He needs someone to look after him," Ragatha muttered, her one button eye gleaming in the dark. "He’s so fragile. I’ll sew him into my own stuffing. Then he’ll be safe. Forever."

Kinger reached under the desk and pulled out a sturdy wooden bucket. He placed it firmly over his head. The confined space within the bucket helped him focus even more. The world was now just a small rectangle of light from the monitors.

"Focus, Kinger," he told himself. "It’s just like chess. Protect the King. And I am the King."

The first hour passed with surprising ease. He watched Jax lounging in a hallway, tossing a Kinger-shaped voodoo doll into the air and catching it. Jax wasn't rushing; he was savoring the hunt, his jagged yellow teeth fixed in a predatory smirk.

"Come on, Kinger," Jax drawled toward the camera. "I just want to see what happens if I shake you hard enough. Do you rattle? I bet you rattle."

Kinger ignored the rabbit and checked the West Hall. His breath hitched.

Pomni was there. But she wasn't the frantic, jester-hatted girl he knew. She had fashioned a pair of antennae out of wire and red baubles, and she had draped a spotted red cape over her shoulders.

"Kinger!" she shrieked, her eyes wide and swirling with madness. "Look at me! I’m a ladybug! I’m a beetle! I’m a beautiful, rare specimen! Add me to your collection, Kinger! Pin me to your wall so I never have to leave this room again!"

Kinger leaned back in his chair, his bucket clinking against the headrest. "A ladybug? Her anatomy is all wrong. The spots are asymmetrical. Very poor camouflage."

He felt a strange sense of calm. The darkness, the stakes, the clear objectives—it was the most sense the circus had made since he arrived years ago. He watched the power meter. Eighty percent. He was doing well. He just had to keep the doors closed when they got too close.

He checked the cameras again. Gangle was moving. She was at the end of the left hallway, her ribbons trailing behind her like funeral shrouds. He reached for the door button, his fingers hovering over the glowing red light.

"Not yet," he whispered. "Wait for the whites of their eyes. Or their masks."

He was so engrossed in the screens, watching Pomni crawl along the ceiling of the East Hall while screaming about thorax segments, that he didn't hear the soft clack-clack-clack of mismatched parts behind him.

He didn't notice the shadow stretching across the desk, mingling with his own.

"The ladybug is a bold choice," Kinger mused, tapping his chin. "But the predatory nature of the mantis would have been more effective for an ambush."

"Is that so?" a dry, multi-tonal voice whispered directly into his ear.

Kinger froze. His floating hands stalled in mid-air. He didn't turn around. He didn't even breathe.

Slowly, a long, spindly arm made of a mannequin leg and a claw-like grabber reached over his shoulder. It didn't attack him. Instead, it gently adjusted the brightness on the monitor.

"You missed the kitchen vent," Zooble said, their voice vibrating with a strange, possessive hum. "Jax is trying to crawl through the pipes. He’s going to get stuck, but he’ll make a lot of noise doing it."

Kinger slowly turned his head—or rather, turned his bucket—to look behind him.

Zooble was standing there, their mismatched eyes glowing faintly in the dark office. They weren't wearing their usual expression of bored detachment. There was something sharper there, something hungry. In their free hand, they held a collection of polaroids, all of them featuring Kinger in various states of confusion.

"Zooble," Kinger said, his voice remarkably steady. "You aren't on the cameras."

"I know how to find the blind spots, Kinger," Zooble replied. They stepped closer, their various joints creaking. "The others are being so... loud about it. Screaming, capes, voodoo dolls. It’s tacky."

Before Kinger could react, Zooble climbed onto the desk and then slid down, making themselves completely comfortable on Kinger’s lap. The weight of their mismatched parts was heavy and cold, a tangle of plastic and metal pressing against his royal robes.

Kinger stared down at them. "You’re... sitting on me."

"I’m occupying the space," Zooble corrected, leaning their head back against Kinger’s chest. They reached up and patted the side of his bucket. "You’re the only one in this whole hellscape who isn't constantly screaming in my face. You’re quiet. You’re weird. I decided you belong to me now."

Kinger looked back at the monitors. Pomni was now banging on the right window, her face pressed against the glass, her ladybug antennae quivering with rage.

"KINGER! LET ME IN! I HAVE WINGS! I CAN FLY!"

On the left screen, Gangle was weeping silently at the door, her ribbons sliding underneath the crack like questing tentacles.

Kinger looked down at Zooble, who was now idly playing with the hem of his robe.

"I have a game to play, Zooble," Kinger said. "If I don't keep them out, Caine says I’ll be 'loved' to death."

Zooble snorted, a metallic sound. "Let them try. I’ve got a sharp claw and a very bad attitude. You just keep watching your little screens, King. I’ll handle the close-quarters defense."

Kinger blinked, his eyes widening behind the bucket. For the first time in a long time, the frantic buzzing in his brain went silent. He felt a strange sense of security, despite the madness pounding at his doors.

"Very well," Kinger said, his floating hands returning to the controls. "But if you see a beetle, tell me immediately. I suspect Pomni’s costume is missing the hind-wings, and I need to verify."

Zooble settled deeper into his lap, their clawed hand resting protectively over his heart. "Focus on your game, Kinger. I’m not going anywhere."

As the clock ticked toward 2:00 AM, Kinger flicked the cameras, his movements precise and calm. Outside, his friends clamored for his attention, driven by a Caine-induced mania. But inside the dark office, protected by a bucket and a very protective pile of parts, the King was exactly where he needed to be.

He checked the East Hall. Pomni was gone.

"She’s in the ceiling tiles," Zooble whispered, not looking up.

Kinger nodded, his hand moving to the light switch. "Thank you, Zooble. Your observational skills are top-tier."

"I know," Zooble muttered, closing their eyes. "Now shut up and play. We have four more nights of this."