Your employee contract stipulates you will not rest in peace, if we can help it.
This article contains CWs for: gore, death
Taxidermy Clause by mxsinister
This tale occurs directly after the events of ‘Casino Crimson’ (CC702/FF000/RR777).
⚠️ content warning ↑
Dancetember!™ 1st, 2020
Chattering teeth and flashing lights. Gunshots and the smell of vanilla. A casino, a desert night, the mouth of hell. And the cold. Piper Elison was cold, so cold. Cold cold cold cold and—
Dying.
She was dying, wasn’t she?
The thought did not panic her; publicity associates had always been told to value composure over all else, trained to withstand any rattling of their cage.
Besides—she was too cold to panic. Someone had dropped her in an ice bath, or locked her in a freezer. She’d drank a milkshake too fast and gotten a nasty brain freeze through her whole body. Her fingertips went numb with it, her adrenaline smothering the pain radiating out from the gnarled wound up her body.
Move, Elison. Her finger pads bound themselves to the woolen fibers of the carpet, trying to drag herself out. The screams and slashes around her had not quieted, yet nothing in her body obeyed her.
Sitting duck. Move.
It wasn’t supposed to go like this. Not when the other party had sued for peace—that fragile offer shattered.
She wasn’t supposed to go like this. Not in some private room of some gaudy Vegas hotel, not at the hands of demons and incompetent investors.
When she moved, it was because someone grabbed the back of her collar and ran like hell. Redd's hands burned like ceramic fresh out of the kiln—should she have worried that it didn't register?
"Hold on—" he rasped, racing out the door. Redd whipped around the corner, swinging her up into his arms as if she were weightless, her head rolling with the momentum as he kept on sprinting.
She knew he was looking for a window, a mirror, some glass surface large enough for them to escape through.
Somewhere on the premises of the Palms Casino Resort, Piper could hear Christmas music playing. Sacrilegious as it was for a Wondertainment employee to admit, she'd never much cared for Christmas music. She would have liked to die to something better.
"Piper, say something to me, please—"
She bound her hands into his starched scarlet shirt, the threads weaving in with the fibers of her fingertips. Hopefully the red fabric wouldn't be ruined by all the blood.
"Redd, I'm cold…"
"I said hold on, girl," he snarled. "You're not allowed to die, do you understand me?"
The looking glass mechanism was a safeguard system that allowed any employee of Dr. Wondertainment rapid passage back to Wonder World via any suitably-sized window or mirror.
So the moment Redd spotted a floor-to-ceiling frosted pane, he lunged toward it, pulling Piper closer to his chest as the glass glistened and warped ethereally around their bodies.
Welcome home, he thought with vitriol, the taste of blood and smoke still tangy in his mouth as they broke through to the other side.
Without conscious decision, Redd entered the Workshop. His father's workshop, with its long, warm shelves, its trinkets and trivial things, its endless collection of misfit toys and tools, lost and found alike… Where else could he possibly take her? Not to his place, certainly, and not to any office in the state she was in.
"HELP!" he yelled as he hit the lacquered floor, keeping his feet in motion without direction. "Help, please, she needs—"
What did she need?
Nothing, anymore. Dead people need nothing.
"Help…"
A shimmer in the corner of his vision. The taste of ice cream on a hot day. A voice like chocolate, like childhood dreams—
"Redd? What happened? What—" And there he was: his father staring, wide-eyed, at exactly what he had to show for all that work in Sin City over these past months. Redd opened and closed his mouth like a fish in lieu of finding an explanation to cough up, the Doctor towering over him in a manner that felt more exaggerated than usual.
Dr. Wondertainment paused in shock, but only for a moment before surging forward, his body flowing like some mixture of light, liquid, and wishes come true.
"Let go. Give her here."
There was an urgency to his demand that Redd couldn't fault, and he relinquished her body without protest. As the Doctor pulled her away, Piper's fingers remained bound to Redd's shirt where she'd held onto him for dear life. Only when the Doctor pulled her away did the threads snap, tearing bits of fabric across his chest as they were separated.
The first thing Dr. Wondertainment did was check for mold, rust, decay—even from carrying her back, the situation's stress had led to some russet spotting where Redd had held her, though it was only small fries beneath all the blood.
She had plenty of injuries, but there was no questioning the wound that killed her. The Doctor set a gloved hand atop the gash, where it looked like someone had ripped a seam from her stomach to her sternum. Redd's saving grace was that there was none of his rust inside the cut itself; he'd been just wise enough to avoid that. His own touch, Redd knew, was not a healing one.
Still, he felt the need to say—"I didn't do this, Dad."
The Doctor made a few sweeping brushes with his hand over the length of her body, the grime and gore sparkling a bit before vanishing, giving him better view of the damage before he snapped his gaze back up, those starlight-colored eyes shadowed by the brim of his top hat.
"Well, I would hope not."
It wasn't his father's anger that twisted a knife into Redd's gut: it was his appalled disbelief, his horrified dismay.
"Every time I think you can't surprise me, Redd…" Dr. Wondertainment said softly, cradling Piper against his chest with a heavy sigh.
The adrenaline from the fight still raged in Redd's nerves, and the only thing that could have been of any catharsis was to continue this conflict with his father.
"Hey! Why all the blame? I said I didn't do it. I brought her back—" Dr. Wondertainment only shook his head with closed eyes as Redd raised his voice. "Well, not all in one piece, but to be fair, she was piecework to begin with."
The Doctor actually laughed a bit at that—a sad, resigned sound.
"Besides," Redd spat, attempting to sound more dismissive than frightened. "You can fix her, can't you?"
The Doctor looked at him in astonishment.
"… Fix her?"
"Fix her!" Redd pleaded. "What's one more broken toy I've brought to you?"
"You've brought me a corpse."
"So?" his voice pitched up. "Dad, you have to fix her!"
His father narrowed his cold eyes, and to his shame, Redd balked the tiniest bit. Even he knew better than to bark orders at the Doctor.
Dr. Wondertainment pursed into a mirthless line beneath the fiery-orange curls of his mustache before before he passed his sentence:
"Go to your room, Redd. And stay there."
On the first day of the last month of the year, it snowed in Wonder World!™. By unanimous decree of the city's citizens, this was the case every year.
Children played in the parks and the white streets. Redd would have liked to enjoy it, too, but he'd had only glimpses as he was escorted, without struggle, to his apartment. Every step along the way left scarlet footprints in his wake—not his fault he hadn't been given time to clean the blood off his shoes.
His concrete quarters sat at the edge of town on the top floor of an otherwise empty complex. The stairwell inside was narrow, damply cold, and smelled of corrosion. Metal bolts slid shut with him inside, and moments later, rusted shut. He pulled the shutters and drew the blinds over the windows, blocking the frosty glass and the criss-crossed metal bars.
And as the cold crept in, Redd could only think of how clammy her body had felt in his arms. How small she'd looked, bleeding out on the floor, in the moment he stopped ripping apart some demonic adversary long enough to realize the damage she'd taken.
He kept having the urge to call Piper, to tell her it had all gone wrong, that he needed her help putting it back right.
But that option wasn't on the table anymore, was it?
Two knocks on the door and a hall monitor's monotone voice momentarily broke him out of his spiral: "A letter for you."
In a more vivacious mood, Redd might have told them to shove it where the sun didn't shine, but he didn't have it in him after tonight. It was some silver lining, at least, that he could still receive correspondence at all.
Any mail he received was no doubt checked before it was passed through a squeaky metal mail slot, hand-delivered by one of the guards posted outside, who had to douse the mechanism in WonderD-40 just to get it open every time.
The stationery, he recognized immediately as being from his sister's desk. The wax seal stood out as crisp and unbroken; only Isabel (or his father, if he felt inclined) could have managed to keep the contents secret from his monitors. Not that it mattered, as even if the guards had taken a peek, it would have been indecipherable; the Wondertainment twins had had their own private language for as far back as either could remember.
Redd tore the envelope open and began to read:
Redd,
Heard what happened—well, not all of it, but I know your thing w/ Carter went sideways. This seems a bad time to say 'I told you so', since I deliberately tried to do no such thing, but you can't expect much from MC&D. What was it Mr. Emmett used to say? "Private equity is the fifth horseman of the apocalypse?"
No matter now. Dad asked Emma to help get things back in order, though, so that should give you some peace of mind. You know how efficient she is. If good executive assistants weren't so difficult to find, I'd tell you to get one yourself.
Dad's been holed up in his Workshop; you know how busy we get this time of year. Still, if you want, I'll come visit you.
You holding up okay? Failure's tough, but you'll make it, I promise. How's Ms. Elison?
Love ya. (Don't always like ya, but I'm not gonna let you rot in there.) You'll be out enjoying the snow days before long, I promise.
Yours,
Izzy.
Lucky him that Super Paper!, at least, was resistant enough to his ambient decay to stay intact inside his desk drawer. He was obliged, at least, to scrawl out a letter replying to Izzy:
What is there to say? Vegas was bad. Very very very bad and I desperately wanted it to not be. Dad thinks I break everything I touch and maybe he's right, but Izzy, this one wasn't even my fault! Well, not all the way.
Piecework's dead. That's why Dad's in his workshop. Don't repeat that. Don't repeat anything about any of this.
And don't visit, either. I'd only kill your holiday spirit.
Love you too.
Yours,
Redd
Outbound communication was a bit more complicated: he had to fold up the message as tightly as he could to fit the origami messenger through the bars of his window. The wings always got squashed in the process, and he'd watch them limp away through the sky, though their magic was such that they'd always find their mark.
After sending off that note, it occurred to him to write to Robert Carter, as well.
Robert… Robert fucking Carter. Thinking about him, about their sitting beside each other in that private room across from Astaroth before everything went into a nosedive, lit an ugly, seething fire in his veins.
What to write to your good-for-nothing business partner? What to say to someone who didn't just drop the ball, but was hardly ever even on the court when he should have been?
You're a piece of work, Robbie, he thought, pacing his floor, the decay accelerating around him. I've killed and maimed for lesser insults than you've done me.
Yet every time Redd tried to put his vitriol to the page, he ripped it to smithereens and threw the scraps into the air like confetti . After his sixth demolished draft, a desolate clarity settled over him, leaving the taste of ash in his mouth.
No words could undo what had been done. His anger would not get their money back, and really, Redd didn't even care about the books. Robert's father, surely, would castigate him enough on that front, anyway.
Redd could resent the ruin of his own reputation as a result of this venture, but… Oh, who was he kidding? He'd survive. He just wished the same could be said for everybody.
He ran his fingertips over the puckered threads across the front of his shirt, replaying the raw memories of Piper grasping onto him for dear life.
You killed her as much as the Duke did… Whether Redd meant that for himself or for Robert, he wasn't even sure himself. But what was certain was that committing his rage to red ink would do nothing to bring her back.
And besides, after everything he had already lost, did he really want to burn one last bridge?
Olive branch it is, then, huh? Redd thought with dry bemusement as he returned to his desk. Dad's right—we never cease to surprise.
And so he wrote to Carter not with rage, but with regrets and reflections. "Well, we gave it the good old college try, didn't we? …"
As Redd folded the bird and pushed it out, he felt… not pride or peace, as his mistakes were still too raw for such indulgences, but all in all, he was grateful he'd decided against sending off the more brutal correspondences to smithereens.
Maybe we'll visit the aquarium again some time, Redd thought as he laid down on his bed. How odd, that he should still look back on that outing with such fondness, knowing even at the time that failure was on their heels.
A thousand times in the aftermath of it all, Redd had called Robert lazy in his mind, but truthfully, he didn't think that an accurate read. No—Robert was paralyzed. Granted, in some invisible way Redd couldn't quite understand or yet entirely forgive, but would not equate his inaction to insult.
Can't envy that… Redd hated being locked up like this. Nowhere to go, no room to breathe—left all alone with endless thoughts that did him no good. He wished for more mail like a child wishes for gifts galore on Christmas Eve.
Any memo or update, at least, would reassure him that even locked away, he held some regard from his employees as Chief Operating Officer, as someone worth forwarding such correspondence to.
As if the guards wouldn't withhold such letters from me…
Oh please, he argued with himself immediately. Don't blame them. No one wants to write to you.
Only as dawn broke did this change—cold, speckled sunlight taunting him through the bars as he received a fresh report:
DEPARTMENT OF PUBLIC RELATIONS
INCIDENT REPORT NO.777417
DATE: DAN/01/2020
PENNED BY: Cat Emmett, PR Associate
LOCATION: Las Vegas, Nevada
DETAILS:
Once upon a time, there was a boy who made a mess everywhere he went. And then, in autumn twenty-twenty, one reckless, nepotistic little boy meets another—just like him! Except this second boy has all the money in the world to throw around. How fun!
Together, the boys make a plan. They're going to build a very profitable establishment in Sin City, and nothing will go wrong!
But they did, of course. Some demons got upset, some kids saw some things they shouldn't, and some feelings got hurt on all sides. But that's all alright! Because this boy has the best publicists in the world, so of course, he'll just call them to clean up after him!
Except you are as reckless with us as you are with everything else.
Redd read the document and groaned, crumpling it slightly as he dropped his head into his hands, gripping his greased crimson hair. Of course, the Publicity Puppies would have already been informed and deployed; there were mountains of cleanup to be done. For the duration of the project, Piper had been the only person from the Public Relations Department that had been fully in the loop. Redd had wanted a lean team from the start, and clearly, that had turned out well.
Your team did what they were supposed to, he thought. Not their fault you dropped the ball.
No time for self-pity, Redd. You can't afford to have the Publicity Puppies hate you.
Yeah, right—how much of their work is your fault, again?
Redd shook his head and got up, tossing the letter somewhere and crossing over to the bright red phone bolted to the wall. With its fat handle, old-school buttons, and thick rubber coil, it looked like a toy (of course).
He hoped it still worked, that he hadn't caused the landline to decay yet. The pages of the phone book beside it had been pock-marked and damaged, eaten away in chunks by the ever-present rot. Well, at least this was a number he had memorized.
Cat Emmett lived in the apartment directly above Piper Elison's. Any time he wanted to see her, he'd just step out onto his balcony and drop down onto her railing (landing on his feet was never a problem). While she'd been in Vegas these past three months, he'd still dropped by every now and then to check on the place.
Also, someone had to feed Lacy. Though Piper's pet spider—a compliment from early trials of Dr. Wondertainment's Custom-Pets!™—subsisted herself just fine on bugs, nectar, and dryer lint, Cat had still promised to keep an eye on her.
Temporarily, he presumed. He had never imagined otherwise.
Cat had brought Lacy to his place when he found out Piper wasn't coming home. His phone and inbox lit up like a Christmas tree, and though Cat swore he had long-since graduated from being overwhelmed by anything work could throw at him, this job always had a way of surprising him.
The night had not granted him a wink of sleep. He had already been staying late in the office when news of Vegas reached the Public Relations Department, ensuring another few hours grinding away in Wonder Tower before he dismissed himself—not from work, only from his workplace.
At least in his own apartment, he didn't have to fight the signs of his grief. Alcohol wasn't sold in Wonder World!™, but he discovered a half-full bottle of Johnnie Walker in the back of his cabinet beneath the sink, which he must have bought a few months back in Boston.
Now, Cat was not at all the sort to drink, especially not on the clock, but he felt the situation justified a glass on the rocks. Not only in cheers to Piper's memory, but to give himself a layer of numbness through which to write emails and make phone calls, to read and absorb the disastrous documents finally coming to light.
All the while, Lacy sat—unbothered—on the sofa beside him, taking up more space than any natural spider would. Cat looked at her and sighed his grief.
"How could your mom not have told me how bad it was?" Eight beady eyes blinked asynchronously up at him.
Cat sighed and finished the rest of his drink before running a hand down his face, scratching at his whiskers. He knew he really should sleep—he needed far more than what he usually got, and he could feel his tenacity and coordination bowing to simple physiology.
Yet as soon as he resigned to curl his legs up and close his eyes, Redd called him. There was never any doubt: the ringtone was a fire alarm, and his screen flashed brighter than a traffic light (he could not change these settings, even if he wanted to).
There was no one he wanted to speak with less. He answered the phone anyway.
"Emmett speaking."
"I got your incident report." Cat winced, hearing that—maybe that should have been one to save in drafts. But that didn't make it incorrect, did it?
"That's not… I didn't file that."
"You just wrote it for me, then? Don't you have better things to do, like putting out the dumpster fire I left for you?"
Cat sat up, rubbing his hazel eyes. He'd written and sent that report immediately after hearing about Piper, after reading Robert Carter's incident report over the mess. He hadn't had time to process his grief (still didn't), but he did have a word processor and some choice words for his boss.
"… Why'd you call me?"
"… I'm sorry, Cat." He couldn't believe his ears. "I really am."
"Oh, yeah, I bet you are," Cat sneered, slowly standing up, his calico tail unfurling slowly. "She tolerated your bullshit more than anyone else in this company, and it killed her, so yeah—I bet you’re real sorry.”
"Hey, language! This is a monitored line, you know."
"I'll pay the fine," Cat replied. “Just tell me what you want, Redd. Absolution? For me to accept your apology? I'm not really in the mood. As you said, I'm kind of busy and very tired."
"I wanted to—" but he couldn't say, because if Cat had to guess, the kid had no idea. He was just lonely and overwhelmed in that shoe-box of an apartment, and if Cat had the bandwidth, he might have taken more pity on him.
At last, Redd asked—"How many people know?"
"About Piper? Very few." For however long that lasted—they both knew Wonder World!™ to be a clearinghouse of gossip, and a story needed only one crack to leak. "You and your father, naturally. Your sister and Ms. Emma, I presume. That leaves myself and however many lawyers."
Redd let out a shaky exhale, which only upset Cat further. What right did he have to act shocked by the consequences of his actions?
"Now, as for how many people know about Vegas—" Cat continued. "Far too many, if you ask me; but it's all hands on deck. Has to be. We're in full crisis-mode, especially PR and Legal. Hanukkah's next week and Christmas is just around the corner—and instead of being a toy company for the holidays, we have our best people on this—this—" But he didn't even have the words.
After a pause, Redd only whispered: "You have to know I never meant for her to get hurt."
"Piper didn't get hurt, Redd. She's dead. A wills and estates lawyer pulled me out of the office earlier to tell me I was listed as her beneficiary." That fact in itself had been a shock to him, though when he'd given it more thought, it shouldn't have; with no next-of-kin, why not put your work-buddy in your will?
"I thought we had it handled," Redd insisted.
"No, she had it handled," Cat snarled. "And look what that earned her."
"Hey, you're not going to sit there and make me feel bad that I asked Piecework to do her job!"
"You—" but he stopped himself. Composure, Emmett… He'll get under your skin and live there, you know him…
Cat bit down on the inside of his cheek, fangs sinking into the skin for a few silent seconds before Redd prodded once more:
"Cat got your tongue?"
Rather than give Redd the satisfaction of his coming undone—of calling him a brat over the phone and telling him how much he would have liked to punt him into Boston traffic—Cat simply hung up.
… But of course, Redd called back. And of course, Cat answered.
"Yes?" he said as curtly as possible.
"… I appreciate the work you do. I know I don't say it enough, and you think I—" Cat's guffawing laughter stopped that train in the middle of the tracks.
"Oh my god, I'm dreaming," Cat said.
"Really. I always have," Redd maintained in a small voice. Cat rolled his eyes to the sky, tail swishing behind him in agitated arcs.
"Redd, do you remember the first time we met?"
"Of course," Redd said, a bit surprised. "Way back in … Twenty-fourteen, fifteen, yeah?"
"Mhmm." Cat had just started his job, and Redd had been but a teenager. "When you saw me, your face lit up, and you went 'Ooo, kitty!'."
"I did not—!"
"Yeah, you did. Just like that," Cat told him. "You pulled a red laser pointer out of your pocket. When I wouldn't chase it, you shined it right in my eye."
"I thought maybe you couldn't see it."
"I went to the clinic to get it checked out, and you sat right there in the waiting room with me and demanded I teach you card tricks."
"You have cool tricks. And you could have told me to scram."
"No, I couldn't have," Cat replied. "Not because you're my boss, but because you don't listen to people. Especially not when they're telling you something you don't want to hear. You don't, but you really should!"
"Emmett—"
Click.
With a sigh, Cat laid back, draping an arm over his eyes. The memory, like so many made under Wondertainment's purview, had been tinged with a rosy nostalgia that numbed out whatever bitterness he'd hoped to drudge up with the story.
To fix that annoying, nonsensical fondness, Cat thought of the first and last time Redd had ever shadowed him during a tour. He still remembered that kid falling into the caramel vat, Cat lunging to grasp his collar. His reflexes hadn't been fast enough to prevent Redd's mistake, but his department had been efficient enough to cover it. And you haven't stopped making us prove it since, have you, kid?
The phone rang again. Cat stared at it and wondered if Piper had suffered before she died, or if at least, Redd had led her into a quick end.
Wishing he could be more optimistic about that answer, Cat picked up and snapped:
"What, Redd?"
"You can say what happened to Piecework is my fault all you want," Redd said hoarsely. "But that doesn't make it true."
"Oh, the truth matters to you now?"
"No more than it matters to you, but why would I want to get my publicist killed?" His, not the company's, Cat noted.
"Don't know. Why would you keep calling me back as if I'm going to tell you it'll be okay?"
Redd scoffed. "Well, that's a moot point. It will be okay, even if you won't be." It will be cleaned up, one way or another, he meant.
Insufferable, ungrateful, son of a—
"Did Daddy yell at you?" Cat purred.
Met with silence on the other end of the line, Cat let a frigid smile pass over his lips.
"After getting chewed a new one, did you decide you wanted to come here to fish for forgiveness?" Cat continued. "To have me lick your wounds by telling you it's not that bad, that we'll get over it by Christmas? Did you just want to be able to throw a tantrum at somebody and not have it blow up a business venture?"
Cat laughed a harsh, hurt sound; he knew he was being cruel, that his words were not befitting … but they weren't inauthentic, either. The exhaustion and impatience were too much to bear with his typical grace, and Redd had been the one to seek him out, not the other way around. He wanted the best for his bosses, truly, but if that was the case, then wasn't tough love part of that? Wasn't this something Redd needed to hear?
What noble justification for kicking the boy while he was down. But as Cat remembered that Piper may or may not even have a funeral, depending on how fully the Wondertainments decided to cover this up, he didn't feel so bad.
"Cat got your tongue?"
After a long pause, Redd mumbled: "… Dad hasn't spoken to me. When I jumped back through the looking glass with Piecework, I brought her to the workshop. The Doctor took her in and sent me out. Haven't heard from him since." Redd paused to sigh heavily. "I don't need him—or you—to tell me that I blundered. Believe me, I'm well aware."
Without replying, Cat walked up to the window, bracing his shoulder against the glass as he watched the paper birds swarming to-and-fro with their communications: more than usual, if anyone paid attention to such an index of crisis.
At last, Cat whispered: "You know, I've never been very good with faces."
"… What?"
"I remember people, of course, but it's by names, scents, the sound of their voice, the way they take their drinks, what candy they like. I can know a person without being able to picture their face all that much." Cat shrugged, "Piper always changed her skin so much that I never really bothered to look at what stayed constant, and now…" here, he choked up.
"You… You don't remember what she looked like?"
"No, I… I do for now, I think," Cat said. "But I just… "
"Liar," Redd said softly. "You haven't seen her since October. You've already forgotten."
"You— the nerve—"
"Oho, but I'm right, aren't I? Bet you couldn't pick out her corpse in a lineup, could ya', kitty?" Redd taunted. "Say, I wonder if it will have to be a closed casket service…"
"Fuck. You." Cat finally said. "Where do you get your satisfaction in this? Putting people through hell like it's your birthright to do so."
In a voice drier than the deserts of Nevada, Redd replied simply: "Isn't it?"
"… I'd tell you to go to hell, but we all know how that went," Cat snarled. "Say what you want, but you know you're only as good as the people around you, and you just lost one of your best. I hope—"
I hope you learn from it, is what Cat should have said. He wanted to, really, but the thought of declining Piper to a learning experience for their boss made the raw wounds sting.
"I hope it haunts you."
And he slammed the phone down. It did not ring again.
December 4, 2020
Dr. Cornelius Reginald Westinghouse Młynarczyk Wondertainment hummed to himself as he worked—some tune belonging to a long-lost music box. An idle habit, really—simple background noise as he carefully stitched and stitched … cut and tied … hemmed and basted and pressed …
What a nasty turn this had all taken… He shook his head intermittently just thinking about it. Redd was lucky, unbelievably so, that Dr. Wondertainment was no stranger to the mechanisms of life and death, especially where toys were concerned. Still, it was tricky business, getting it right.
Best not to rush—besides, he had been curious to see Ms. Elison's inner workings.
Such an odd little doll she'd been from the first; that naturally bubblegum hair was the least of it. Her skin, really, had always been the star of the show: resilient and elastic on every level, reinforced by a thin yet sturdy layer of organic cross-stitch fabric, allowing her to sew patches and the like into herself without damage. The density of her flesh, too, was closer to that of cotton than to meat. Going deeper, even her organs and viscera had the properties of fabric.
Curious, this one. Something he might have designed, he'd always thought—and yet, he could take no credit for her creation. Not till now, anyway. Not until he reached right down to her soul (such a precious, ephemeral thing) and embroidered his mark onto it.
Nothing major—a simple inscription, stitched with tender loving care: BOUND™— WONDER :)
He'd reattached to essence to her physical form and had gone to work repairing the physical body encasing it.
At last, Dr. Wondertainment declared: "There! That should do it."
With a warm smile, he reached to the woman laying flat on his workbench, gently stroking a strand of pink hair out of her face. He snapped once by her left ear, then whispered: "Piper?"
No response.
"Hmm … Piper," he said with a bit more force. "Piper, dear—" he tapped her face. "It's time to wake up."
Nothing but a twitch beyond the eyelids. Dr. Wondertainment clicked his tongue once, and after a moment's pause, delivered a swift and open-palmed slap across her cheek.
There was a flash of sparkles, and Piper woke up with a gasp.
"Ah, there we go!" His expression lit up with glee as he puled his hand back. "Good morning, sleepyhead."
Beyond that initial jolt, to her credit, there were no panicked theatrics. No unbecoming flailing or screaming for him to deal with—how lovely. Piper only looked around with wide eyes, still-glassy cerulean saucers taking in the unfamiliar setting of the workshop, not to mention the shocking presence of the Doctor himself.
"Welcome back, dear—you gave us quite a scare there, quite a scare!" Seeing her start to shift, he put a hand on her shoulder and guided her upright. She didn't need much help, which in itself was another good sign. "Now, do you remember what happened? You can nod or shake your head."
Piper looked at her palms, then turned them over quizzically before nodding once.
"Good! That's very good." She ran her hands up her arms with what he took to be a sort of uncertain caution. He never took his eyes off her—he trusted his handiwork enough to have confidence in nothing going wrong at this stage, but one never knows for sure. "I'm going to ask some basic questions, just to make sure your head's on straight, m'kay?" Nod. "What's your name?"
"P—" her attempt to speak was interrupted by a spell of dry coughing. Dr. Wondertainment apologized for his oversight (silly him, forgetting how much life-like creatures needed water) and provided her with a tall glass, which she took in both hands. She downed half of it in one go, then tried again. "Piecework Piper Elison."
"And where are you from?"
"Three Portlands."
"Good—where do you work?"
"Dr. Wondertainment, Public Relations Department."
"What do we do, at Dr. Wondertainment?"
"… We make toys."
"And what do you do at Dr. Wondertainment?"
A longer pause before she replied: "Die in the line of duty?"
The Doctor laughed with all his chest. "Ever a wit, you! Glad to have you back with us, my dear." With a sigh, he set his gloved hands and all their too-many joints on his hips. "You know, you're awfully lucky; I'm not certain I could have pulled off that with most employees. Humans have no sense of antifragility, but what I love about dolls is that you’re repairable."
Piper stayed quiet, finishing the water and setting it aside. He watched her run her fingertips curiously over the new stitches in her legs before she looked around the Workshop with an unfocused awe. It fascinated him enough to be patient for a few moments, but no longer.
"I know it's still quite early, but we've got a lot to discuss, you and I," he said, petting her head once. "Can I get you some tea?"
"Yes please," she said, drawing her knees up to her bare chest. "And may I please have a blanket?"
"Yes, of course!" Was it cold in here? He could never tell. Ah, it also hadn't occurred to him that it might be somewhat disorienting to wake up naked in a room with one's boss. He pulled a yellow-and-purple cover off a nearby something and whisked it around her shoulders.
Instinctively, she drew it tighter around her—not out of shame, he realized, so much as a want for the inherent comfort of the fabric itself. "This is nice wool."
"It is, isn't it?" A tea kettle fluttered by on feathered wings; Dr. Wondertainment plucked it from the air and whistled for two cups to come running. "Only the best for my employees."
He was almost disappointed to see her cover up his artistry so quickly. When she'd come back from Vegas, the Doctor had been shocked to see that she'd swapped her typical fabric patches for a body's worth of tattoos. Not that he had any issue with the stylistic choice, especially when it let her blend in with the non-anomalous crowd over there, when needed. Besides, he imagined she'd intended for some of it to act as armor, to add to an intimidation factor.
But she was home now, and so he'd taken the luxury of restoring her to a more appropriate aesthetic: pale skin grown back from her own body, contoured and decorated with pastel swatches of organic cotton. Any natural fiber would have sufficed, while anything synthetic would have had her breaking out in hives upon revival. As for her insides, she was a good deal more stuffing than before, but her body had accepted the transfusion as naturally as flesh.
"Here you go, dear—lemon vanilla, just how you like it," he said, placing the cup in her hand. "And when you leave, don't forget your laundry—" He motioned toward a drying rack, on top of which sat the inked skin she'd arrived with, folded neat as sheets.
Piper blinked. "You saved them?"
"Of course!" He gave her cheek a light tap, right where he'd stitched a new pink heart patch. "I must admit, I was a bit taken aback by your stylistic choices, when you came in, but—" he shrugged. "I figured they might have some significance to you."
She nodded and took a sip of her tea. Never one for giving up details, was she? That's alright—her sense for keeping her mouth shut was one of the things that made her most suited for her job. At any rate, the tea would help with that; perhaps she might have liked a stiffer drink, given all that passed, but the drink the Doctor had offered would lower her guard and loosen her tongue better than any alcohol would.
"Now, in case you were worried—I'm not upset with you." Which was mostly true, and a little white-lie never hurt anyone, anyhow. In any case, he didn't blame her. "And you won't get in trouble for being honest. I've already read everything from our files, as well as MC&D's. You did some wonderful patch-up jobs this quarter, but there's no need for any of that with me."
She nodded comprehendingly and finished her tea; it was refilled in any instant—good. The more she drank, the easier this would be, and frankly, she probably was rather dehydrated.
"Ready?" A nod. "Good. Now, from your perspective, what went wrong in Las Vegas?"
She let out an awfully deep sigh before humming contemplatively for the next few seconds. "We put it all on red and lost."
The Doctor gave a quick, mirthless chuckle, but otherwise waited for her to continue.
"I think—" she cleared her throat. "Well, a few things. We started on the back foot, unfriendly location and locals and all. The demons weren't afraid to throw their weight around, and they were far from welcoming…"
"I was hoping MC&D's involvement would appease them," Wondertainment remarked.
"Ha—yes, we hoped the same. Unfortunately, Robert Carter's involvement wasn't quite as robust as we had anticipated."
"Mm, yes, I got that from the file…" he rested his chin on his palm, rhythmically drumming those long fingers across his cheek in thought. "That boy has some troubles, I'm sure, but … Ah, well, I have a hard enough time knowing how to act as a father to my own. I really shouldn't judge what they call parenting in London, but…" Well, he'd leave it at that.
"If my word means anything, sir—" she said. "Redd did the best he could."
Wondertainment's brows floated up. "Did he, now?"
"Redd left Vegas as soon as Casino Crimson opened. He was terrified things would go wrong if he stayed." Piper let out a rueful sigh. "Of course, things went wrong after he left, and so by Halloween, I asked him to come back and help. After that … Well, you read the reports."
"I did … Quite the damage you two did. I'm impressed."
"Impressed, but disappointed?"
"I didn't say that," Wondertainment shook his head. "It wasn't a fight you started, simply one you finished. I … Well, honestly, I'm not sure I would have done much differently. I'll admit this to you here, and only because I know you'll keep my secret, but I've delivered my fair share of cruel and unusual punishments in my time."
"You don't say?" As soon as the words left her mouth, the color drained from her face. The Doctor only chuckled, glad to see her sarcasm was still intact. He dismissed her concern with a reassuring wave of his hand.
"Shush, you," he scolded playfully. "Drink your tea." Still slightly flushed at her own unintentional insolence, she swallowed more of the brew, which continued to refill at the perfect temperature.
After a few beats, never taking his eyes off her, he leaned forward and asked—
"Piper, do you love my son?"
"Of course." Well, of course, every Wondertainer loved the Wondertainments. Any employee would die for the Doctor or his twins without hesitation, just as this one had. So, the Doctor rephrased his question:
"I mean that the way people usually mean it," he said. "Are you in love with Mr. Redd?"
Piper thought about it, but replied: "No."
"Don't lie."
"I'm not. Not in that way," she maintained. "I love him more than anyone in the world, but I pity anyone unfortunate enough to fall in love with him."
"Ha! A good way to put it," he conceded. "And well, I suppose you didn't have much choice in that matter … I still cringe, thinking about the onboarding he gave you. First and last time I ever let him do that."
Piper shrugged. "I don't regret it."
"No, you wouldn't…" But the Doctor frowned nonetheless. "In some ways, I'm glad he has such a loyal Publicity Puppy in you. On the other hand, I think he's enabled by having such a tolerant handler and capable accomplice. He takes you for granted."
She shrugged again, and the Doctor noticed that the motion wasn't quite as smooth as it should have been, as if her shoulders had been merely pulled up by the strings of some invisible puppeteer, then dropped. "Nothing I can do about that, though, is there?"
"No, I suppose not…" he admitted. "Honestly, I've weighed the option of taking you off his detail, but… No, that'd be no good. He'd get into all the same trouble, start all the same fires, only with some other unfortunate PR rep."
The Doctor shook his head, but found her face to still be impassive. Had her expression changed at all during this conversation? Well, hopefully that wasn't permanent…
"Is he in his apartment?" she asked carefully.
"He is, yes. He'll be there a while yet." The Doctor tilted his head, gauging her lack of reaction. "Do you want to see him?"
"I… I'm not sure…"
"A fine answer," he approved. "His detail wouldn't allow you in unless I gave the explicit order, but well… That's never stopped you from finding your way in, has it?"
Mutely, Piper looked down at her tea.
"What, you thought I didn't know?"
"No," she murmured. "I knew you knew, I just …"
Curious about how much I heard, I presume? the Doctor thought to himself with a sort of rueful bemusement. Wonder World's surveillance network covered every nook and cranny of the city-state, but there was little to be done about the fact that any camera or microphone inside Redd's apartment rusted and degraded beyond functionality within moments of their instillation. But she couldn't be certain of that, now could she?
"You've spent a lot of time in there, over the years—visiting him when no one in their right mind would."
With the faintest of smiles, she remarked—"We're all mad here, no?"
"Ha, touché. Still, it's why I asked what I did," he replied, pausing thoughtfully before continuing: "What did you two do, then?"
Wondertainment knew it wasn't relevant, not really, and yet given the opportunity to have his curiosity sated, he couldn't help but pry into what had occurred behind rusted doors.
"We mostly just talked," she said simply.
The Doctor cocked his head. "Just talked?"
"If you want some juicier answer, there were a few occasions—especially early on—where he'd lay me down and rip my seams, just to watch me put them back together."
"That sounds about right for him… Well, then, what did you talk about?"
"Mm, I suppose what normal friends talk about," she said. "Childhoods, work… I'm not—well, I'm not big on sharing, you know, so I usually let him talk more—"
"Did you speak of me?"
"Yes." A negative answer would have been utterly unbelievable. "Often. No matter how he loathes the subject, he has to bring it up. Did you make him that way?"
Dr. Wondertainment gave a dry laugh, casting his gaze aside. "He's been an unpredictable little handful since the day he was born." His eyes twinkled with fondness as he said it—or were those the first hints of tears?
"Sir," Piper started softly, "I know it's not my place to say, but since I can't really help it right now: he does want to make you proud. Or at the very least, make Isabel proud. He's under no delusions about what he is, I don't think, but he knows what he's good at."
"Certainly—and he's good at doing damage," the Doctor sighed. "Which, frankly, isn't a knock against him. It's good to have people like that in your corner, as you know, but… Augh, Piper, do you mind if I mine you for some parenting advice?"
"Ha—well, so long as you're fine with my lack of qualifications, go ahead."
"I don't want to yell at him," Wondertainment said. "I don't want to yell at anyone I care for, anyone who's family. I've seen parents snap and lose their temper over their children's mistakes, but what good does that do? Are they supposed to learn that every misstep ought to be met with fire and brimstone? That blind anger, rather than forgiveness and understanding, lie around the corner of every blunder?"
Piper, to her credit, didn't speak as Dr. Wondertainment sighed deeply and rested his arms on his knees.
"But I do yell at him," he continued, barely above a whisper. "I avoided it for years, but for all that time, he never had any trouble yelling at me. Screaming and hurling insults, doing anything and everything in his power to see me break…" A wry smile passed his face. "And one day, he won. When the twins were seven, he put seven knives through Isabel's ribs. He'd never been able to actually hurt her before, and the knives were new… I kept my temper, at first, but he looked right at me and started shouting that it was my fault, that if I was going to so obviously have a favorite child, the least I could do was protect her, and I…"
He stopped to wipe his eyes, the tears glittering like starlight on the waterline. "We screamed back and forth for hours, days—I don't know. By the time we were through, I couldn't look at him, much less at myself. So I put him in time-out, locked him in his room with every magic seal I had, and told myself I would go to him once I'd cooled off. Days passed, and the rust and mold ate away at the place with him inside, and for all my guilt, that standoff lasted far longer than it should."
"How long?" Piper asked.
"I don't want to say."
"Aww, that's not fair," she said lightly, extending her cup of tea to him. "How long, Doctor?"
Chuckling mirthlessly, he took a sip from the mug, though mostly for the gesture itself; it wasn't as if the contents would effect him. "Seventy-two days and nights."
She didn't say a word. What was there to say, to an admission like that? The pause drew out, dreadful. The Doctor took another sip of tea, aware that she had more than likely already heard the story from Redd before.
"I loathed myself for it," he whispered. "I truly did. I loathe what he brings out in me, by virtue of having all my worst qualities."
He put the cup down. Maybe he'd underestimated its efficacy, or maybe he just didn't often have the chance to speak so candidly.
"Was the number of days intentional?" she asked quietly.
"Not at all. I wanted it to be shorter. Kept telling myself, every day, that today, I'd let my boy out. But he was in such a state, Piper, I— How could I be merciful, when he'd done such damage to my daughter?" he looked at her. "And now, when he's done such damage to you—"
"You know," she murmured. "I only ask because a 7-2 offsuit is statistically the worst hand you can have in Texas Hold 'Em."
The Doctor blinked at her, baffled.
"No wonder he brought you to Vegas."
"Don't hold it against him," she replied. "We did far more damage than we took, sir, I promise you."
"Yes, you certainly did …" he sighed, thinking back to the figures and photographs he'd seen in the project file. "I'll say this for Vegas: money talks, and it says goodbye!"
"Christmas isn't going to save Q4, is it?" she asked dejectedly. The Doctor shook his head, laughing as he reached to pat her cheek.
"A problem for the accountants," he told her with a twinkle in his eyes. "You know, it's a shame—it's a fabulous city."
"Yes, it is."
"But you won't miss it?" he guessed.
"Not one bit," she replied. "I prefer the way we play poker here, anyway, and I've seen enough chips and cards and hands to last a lifetime."
"If you think about it, you certainly have."
"Ha."
The Doctor hoped she'd learn to laugh properly again, with time.
Really, he should let her go home, find her bearings, but before he could do that, he needed to know…
"You met Robert Carter, yes?"
"Yes sir, a few times."
"Do you suppose he… Was it your impression he had any… pity-worthy feelings toward my son?"
She blinked, surprise registering across her face only in microexpressions. "Pardon?"
"Do you take him to be in love with Redd?"
"I—I don't know." Piper cocked her head. "Why do you ask?"
Wondertainment shrugged. "Oh, only a hunch. I've been around a long time."
"Well, I… I didn't see them interact much, really. And Mr. Carter always seemed so disinterested in everything, I… It's possible, I suppose, but I don't think I can give you an answer, one way or another. Sorry."
He waved a gloved hand. "Oh, no need for apologies. It's enough that you've indulged my curiosity thus far." With a great sigh, he picked himself up. "I'll find you some proper clothes and let you be on your way. Don't worry about getting back to work right away, and if anyone asks, you need only tell them you were injured and recovering. That's not inaccurate, anyway."
Piper nodded, then looked at her hands once more. Wondertainment wasn't sure what to expect, bringing her back; he was glad to see her taking it well, but could only hope it wouldn't hit her with fuller force later. Couldn't be helped, though, he supposed.
"Though you should probably know, Mr. Emmett might be a bit alarmed to see you."
She looked up sharply. "Cat thinks I'm dead?"
"You were dead, dear," he said with a reassuring smile, taking her face in both hands and kissing her hair again. "And it is so wonderful to have you back."
Piper stood in front of her mirror and practiced how to smile. Had it always been so difficult, to get it just right? If anything, it should have been easier: the few imperfections in her teeth had been erased, leaving her with a mouth of impeccably straight pearly whites.
That trend hadn't ended there, either. The dark bags that had developed under her eyes (in the past few months, especially), had vanished, and she swore, her hair had never been this soft and shiny—nearly styled, too, falling around her shoulders as if she'd set them in pin-curls a full day prior. Her skin, needless to say, was without blemishes or scars, though that one was a bit of a freebie.
One more time, from the top, she thought, willing her lips to stretch and turn up at the edges.
You're overthinking it, she told herself, stretching out her jaw before resigning just to splash cold water on her face and deal with it later. After all, there were other orders of business. Luckily, her apartment wasn't too much of a mess, but it was strangely quiet.
"Lacy?" she called out—it wasn't unusual for the spider to tuck herself into nooks and crannies, but she usually greeted Piper when she got home… As she checked the laundry and linen closet, it occurred to her that Cat had probably picked her up.
Well, that was nice of him, she thought as she walked out to her balcony. Muscle memory hadn't totally abandoned her, and she easily climbed up the small ladder she'd left out for exactly this purpose, pulling herself into his apartment.
It was unlocked—no one in Wonder World!™ ever had need to lock their doors. Sure enough, he was sprawled across his couch, dozing with Lacy sprawled atop most of his chest. She hated to disturb them, especially when she could guess how much sleep Cat had been afforded in these recent days, but—
She wasn't given a choice, it turned out. Lacy jumped vertical a solid foot in alarm, jolting Cat awake and upright before she even landed. Piper stepped forward just as Lacy skittered behind Cat, and only when she saw his reaction did she register why.
The hair bristled across every inch of his body, some primal repulsion flashing across his visage. Piper stopped dead where she was standing.
Something twisted in her chest, and she thought she might cry right there on the spot, but no such reaction even threatened to physically manifest.
"Cat?" she started meekly as he scrambled to his feet.
"You—" he choked on the words, so uncharacteristically at a loss for them.
"Oh dear," was all she could whisper. "I really did come back wrong, didn't I?"
To her shock, he just shook his head, calico hair beginning to flatten slowly. "Who cares? You came back."
A moment later, there were arms around her, his low purring vibrating through her body. She set her face against his shoulder as he buried his own in her hair.
"They didn't even let you die," he hissed. "All of this, and they didn't even let you rest in peace."
"Cat…"
"Why didn't you tell me how bad it was, Piper?" His voice cracked, and with a shock, she realized he was crying.
"Hey, no tears…" she murmured with a smile.
"I'm sorry, I know it's improper, I just—" he sniffed once, sharply. "How are you here?"
She gave a hollow laugh into his chest. "Cause I have work on Monday."
He cursed into a laugh before leaning back, taking her face in his palms. "How do you feel?"
"Perfect," she replied, smiling mechanically, knowing it still wasn't quite right. She could tell as much from the unease that briefly flashed over his face.
"It's just us, Elison," he assured her, guiding her to the couch. "Two plus two can be four."
She chuckled at that; that phrase had long since been shorthand for Wondertainers, especially those who dealt in particularly sensitive information. When two plus two equaled five or anything else, they had to watch their tongues; it equaled four, supposedly, only when they were clear to speak freely.
"That's not quite true, is it?" While they had plenty of liberty within the confines of their own apartments, that didn't mean they weren't both aware of their being monitored, to some degree.
"No, not technically, but you can still speak frankly with me," Cat said, the two of them curling with their knees up on the sofa, facing each other.
Piper shrugged. "Truly, I don't feel much of any way right now. It's like my head and my heart were both stuffed with cotton. Which, as far as I'm aware, is at least partially what really happened."
A bitter darkness shifted onto his handsome, spotted face. "When I heard what Redd did—"
"Cat," she cut him off neutrally. "I don't want to talk about Redd. I don't want to talk about Vegas, either. I just…" she laid her head against the cushions. "Can you tell me how your day's been?"
Cat scoffed with an irritated swish of his tail. "Well, I can't tell you about my day without telling you about Vegas."
"Mm, you'll figure something out," Piper replied, turning her head in a not-quite-smooth motion, her eyes landing upon Lacy—the large, fluffy spider skittered slowly across the ceiling.
"Today was good," Cat lied blatantly, knowing Piper wasn't totally paying attention. "I had salmon for lunch and I gave two tours of Wonder Tower. I heard a rumor about a Little Misters Christmas album."
"Mm, that's nice." Piper extended a delicate, multi-material hand and waited; Lacy paused for several seconds before descending on a threaded silk string, landing in her grasp and beginning to chitter nervously before moving across her arm, eventually settling atop her breast.
"Hey, sweetie … Missed you," she murmured, planting a careful kiss to the top of her soft head before glancing up at Cat. "Thanks for taking care of her."
"Of course," he said, frowning. "I… I didn't realize I was your beneficiary."
"Was that shocking? We're each other's emergency contact."
"I know, I just …" he rubbed his temples. "I know you don't want to talk about it, but when Will sent that over—"
"Who's Will?"
"Will E. State, from Legal—okay, you're right to laugh, that is kind of funny," he replied. "Look, I'm trying to be heartfelt here!"
"Of course, of course—continue."
"I really thought I lost you, Piper. I mean, not to get sappy, but…"
"Work wives are really that hard to find, hmm?" she mused.
Shaking his head, he stood up from the sofa. "I never want to hear you call me emotionally unavailable again, you know that?"
"I've never complained, have I?"
As Cat moved toward the kitchen, Piper set her arm on the back of the couch and continued over her shoulder— "It wasn't Redd's fault, you know."
"Whatever you say."
"Seriously," she said. "This one was on Carter."
But he only opened his cabinet and replied— "By the way, I stole that pink Moscato from your apartment, 'cause I thought you weren't coming back. Want a glass?"
"Yes, please."
Dancetember!™ 17, 2020
Redd was not difficult to spot amidst the snow. The powder speckled his scarlet hair, as well as the shoulders of his carmine parka. He turned his face to Piper as she approached; his skin was a matte grey, cheeks rosy with blush that had nothing to do with the cold.
He had been drawing shapes in the snow with a black branch, but wiped it away before she could make out the image. She stopped a foot from him, hands stuffed into the pockets of her wool coat. “They let you out.”
“So they did …” Redd sighed, his breath a curling white cloud before his ruby lips. He stood, putting his hands in his pockets as his crimson eyes met her cornflower ones, their heights close to level with each other. “You know, I heard ghosts with unfinished business often like to hang around the world of the living.”
“I hear the same.”
"I was hoping you'd haunt me," Redd said, stepping closer.
She turned her palms to him briefly. "Here I am."
“You look well, actually.”
“Surprised?”
“Considering the amount of blood and stuffing you left behind at the Palms Casino, yes,” he said. She only hummed, observing him observing her. “You’re cold—we should go inside.”
Piper had told herself she wouldn’t do that—that she’d meet with him here in the courtyard, in full view of the surveillance network and his security detail. But who was she kidding? He started walking, and she fell in step.
Wonder World!™ did not have slums or ghettos; nevertheless, Redd's apartment was not what one would call befitting of his status. He pressed the button at the front door, which let them in with a wheezing buzz. The stairwell to his quarters was narrow, damply cold, and smelled of rusted metal. The mannequins enlisted as his guards stood at each threshold along the way, yet for all their orders, no one tried to stop her going up with him.
“Sorry about the state,” he said as he opened his door, the hinges shrieking in protest. “I’m going to get it cleaned by Christmas, I swear …”
“It’s alright,” she murmured, taking in the decay with a numb yet familiar sympathy as he shouldered the front door shut, then turned the lock.
“Can I get you anything?”
“Ha—do you have anything?”
“Not really,” he admitted. “The faucet stopped working about two days in, and I think you’d get sick from eating anything I might find lying around.”
“I’m alright, thanks,” she told him as he moved to check the integrity of the sofa, cringing at the mold present. That was more her concern than the rust, even if it was less prevalent. Hissing, he opened a small linen closet and found a folded set of scarlet sheets.
“Here—these are clean,” he said, striding toward his bedroom and throwing the material haphazardly over the deteriorating mattress. “Unless— would you rather lay on the floor?”
“I’m fine standing,” Piper replied as she removed her coat and hung it over a corroded hook on the nearby wall.
Redd pivoted his head too far over his shoulder before giving way to a sullen silence before simply declaring: “I want to see the damage.”
Of course he did …
“You don’t mind, do you?” Oh, don’t pretend to consider my feelings now. Not while she wondered if she’d all but lost them.
“No," she whispered.
“Then take your clothes off,” he said simply. After a pause, he almost meekly added— “Please.”
Piper hesitated, but not for long. How many times, now, had they danced to this tune?
She undressed herself as she would under the cold fluorescence of a doctor’s office, revealing a layer of seasonal thermals, followed by plain undergarments beneath.
“There’s hardly a scar …” Redd noted, ruby eyes fixed on the seams across her stomach. “Then again, there never is with you.” He was right; Piper’s skin, amongst its other anomalous properties, did not spin itself into scar tissue at every little injury as most did. Instead, it had flexibility and fortitude enough to endure stitching and re-stitching, day in and day out.
“What’s a blade, but a very large needle?” she remarked as she laid down on the bed.
“You were gutted,” Redd pointed out, placing a knee to the right of her hip and crawling up beside her. “Your dermal layer’s one thing, Piecework, but your insides …”
He placed a hand on the center of her stomach, pressing his fingers into the seam running down from her sternum, causing her breath to hitch.
“Still tender?”
“A bit—sorry.”
“No need for sorries,” he said as he shifted to straddle her thighs, giving himself a better vantage point. “But do try not to squirm.”
At least, over the years, he’d grown more precise. Rather than summon a dagger to hack away at her with, he went in first with ruby embroidery scissors: a gift from her to him, her first Christmas with the company. She took further note of the seam ripper and nail clippers resting on the sheets next to his knee.
“Did it hurt?” he asked as he methodically cut and pulled out the thread.
“Dying? It hurt like hell,” she barked a laugh, but not one strong enough to move her stomach too much as he slipped a thumb under a swatch of fabric. “And it was very cold.”
“What about being dead?’ he pried, gingerly peeling back the topmost cotton stratum and separating it from its protective underlayer.
“No, that didn’t hurt at all,” she reported. “I remember you carrying me out of the casino, and then, waking up in the Doctor’s Workshop—” Her voice couldn’t help but pitch up a bit on the last syllable, not that this appeared to bother him. He only hummed, encouraging her to continue.
"Y-You ever started watching a movie at somebody else's place, but you don't get all the way through?" she shuddered out. "And then later, you go home and have to fast-forward to where you were, find a spot close enough to where you left off. From your perspective, it's sort of continuous, even though it's technically not."
"Is that really the best analogy you can come up with?" Redd sounded unimpressed.
"No, cause it's nothing like that—" Piper inhaled sharply as he dug in further, not that this appeared to bother him.
"What's it like, then?" Redd repeated.
"Nothing," Piper insisted. "It felt like dying. Not everything feels like something else."
"Not even like going to sleep?" His hands began to work faster, rougher in their vivisection. She winced soundlessly. "Here I was thinking I gave you a chance to catch up on all that beauty sleep you lost in Vegas."
Piper took herself through deep breaths before replying. “Eight hours would have sufficed—three days seems dramatic."
Redd scoffed—"Agreed!" and picked up his tweezers. He reached in and pinched a bit of wet, pink flesh, pulling and snipping the sample free.
It bloody hurt, of course, but she had internalized the notion of pain being the mere firing of nerves years before meeting Redd. At least this was better than laying under tattoo needles for hours each day as she had as a teenager. That was what she told herself, anyhow.
The real artists were hardly a hassle, using swatches of her flesh to display flash tattoos and larger designs—but her real tolerance for anguish came from letting amateurs work on her. For any apprentice knew that with Piecework, they could practice on real skin all they wanted without their mistakes being permanent.
For years, Piper had lived above a studio in Three Portlands, her rent paid as a canvas, her skin decorated with ink as quickly as she could peel it off. The only downtime came in the rare lapses of having to wait for her epidermis to regenerate, wrapped in loose silks she would have rather stitched right into herself, would it not have impeded the healing process.
“Interesting," Redd said, interrupting her thoughts. "There’s a lot more cotton in here than before."
“Probably easier to repair me that way,” she presumed.
“Seems to me like he taxidermied you,” Redd remarked.
“I had the same thought,” Piper admitted, screwing her eyes shut against the flickering halogen lights. “Say, you know how ghosts possess objects?”
“Sometimes, yes,” Redd said. “There’s quite a few haunted dolls out there, I hear—what’s one more?” As if there were a dollmaker in the world who could play at the level of Dr. Wondertainment himself.
“If someone dies, and their body is taxidermied,” she proposed, “what’s to stop the ghost from possessing it again?”
Redd paused to think about it before shrugging. “Nothing, I guess. One of many reasons, I imagine that it’s not a common mortuary practice … But since when do we care about conventions?”
She hummed bemusedly at that, her head going light, feverish.
“Does it still feel like your body?” Redd asked.
Part of her wanted to be dramatic—tell him that this body no longer felt like her own. But honestly— "Yes. I slipped back in and found it fit like a glove."
"Mm … Did you wake up with the same skin?"
Piper felt the metal tools move deeper, piercing and picking her apart.
"No, but I appreciated that," she replied through clenched teeth. "You know I prefer fabric to ink."
"As do we," Redd agreed. Did he mean him and his father, or was he merely using the royal We? Piper couldn't decide. She started to speak again, but managed only a choked noise as the tweezers bit at her stomach. "Huh? What was that?"
"R-Redd—" Fuck, normally he stuck to the surface, content to tenderly rip her seams and peel back her outer layers.
"Oh! These are new!" he informed her merrily. "Your organs are all stitched up, how 'bout that?"
Of course—with all the fun and fascinating changes made by the Doctor, how could he help himself?
"Redd—" she gasped again, her fingertips binding to the bedsheets and pulling at the threads as she grasped them on reflex. "I don't think you should be messing with that yet."
"I know, I know," he dismissed, like a child being told not the run on the playground. But his eyes gleamed with that inexorable curiosity she knew all too well. "I just want to see— Oh!"
Piper couldn't tell exactly what he did, just that the sharp pain wrenched a scream out of her.
"Redd, please," she cried. "No more, please. I can't—"
To her surprise, Redd stopped. His face was fashioned in slight pout, as if he'd been denied dessert until he finished his dinner. But with a displeased sigh, he withdrew his tools.
"I suppose we can save more for later," he grumbled. "Didn't expect you to still be so fragile."
"I—" she laid an arm over her eyes, pausing to catch her breath, hiding her involuntary tears. "I just don't want to have another Doctor's visit so soon."
"Nor do I," he agreed, swinging his leg back over her to let her up. "Dad wouldn't be too happy with me, sending you back so soon. Besides, I need you around."
"Mm? What, for Christmas?"
"Uh—yeah, that's part of it," he said, standing up and rubbing the back of his neck. "Do you have your sewing stuff?"
Piper hummed an affirmative, but didn't move. Redd retrieved a small metal case he'd taken from the pocket of her coat and placed it next to her hand.
"C'mon," he urged. "You can still walk, can't you?"
"Maybe, but I'd like to keep my entrails from falling out."
"So dramatic," he sighed, only to giggle as she moved her arm to glare at him. "I didn't sever anything—scout's honor."
Piper rolled her eyes. "Do you have a mirror?"
He went to the bathroom and came back with a handheld looking-glass; the handle was a bit corroded, a black film eating away at the edges, but once she wiped down the reflective face with the edge of the bedsheet, it was functional enough.
She sat up against the croaking headboard, threaded a needle, and angled the mirror to view where Redd had cut into her. True to his word, the damage wasn't severe—he'd just poked around a bit, taken a look around, was all.
Redd took a seat—criss-cross apple sauce—at the foot of the bed and watched her stitch herself back up. There was no use in him offering help with this part, as they both knew he wouldn't have been any.
He's right, she thought as she massaged things back to where they should be. It feels more like fabric than before. Better that way, she figured—it was easier for her to manipulate that, than standard flesh.
Antifragile, the Doctor called you—not just repairable, but improved from damage.
Once she'd basted her skin back in place, Piper told Redd—"You know, there's a clause about death and revival in my employee contact."
Redd perked up. “No joke?”
“Mhmm," she said, reinforcing the seams with more precise stitches. "Buried there in the black and white somewhere after I stopped reading—terms and conditions surrounding my potential on-the-job demise and subsequent, successful reassembly. Saved me at least half a headache with regards to the will and estate nonsense I would have had to deal with otherwise."
“I’m delighted to hear it. What thorough lawyers I’m set to inherit,” he mused dryly.
Stealing glances at him, she had the impression Redd wanted to say something. His crimson brows were furrowed, his slightly blood-stained hand resting in front of his lips. Still, he waited until she tied off the last stitch in her sternum before blurting out—
"I need you to come to Vegas with me tomorrow."
The world ceased to spin. Piper could only stare ahead.
"… How about I lay back down, and you go ahead and kill me?"
"Piecework—"
"What happened this time?" she asked, voice empty.
"Nothing happened," he assured her. "It's just—well, Robert Carter asked me to dinner. I got the letter this afternoon. Dad agreed to let me go, but I have to take you."
She put her head in her hands. This had to be a bad dream. But that thought alone made her bark a mirthless laugh.
"You know, I don't dream anymore," she whispered. "Not one night since coming back. Do you suppose it's permanent?"
"Huh? What does that have to do with anything?"
She raised her head out of her hands. "Don't make me go back."
"All you have to do is wait in the car!"
Piper shook her head. "No. Take Emmett."
"I don't want to take anyone else," he snapped, lunging forward like a snake striking for the kill, taking her face in both hands, ruby eyes boring into kyanite ones. "No one else was there in the thick of it. No one else had my back like you did."
She set a hand atop his, every fiber of her being numb.
"Hey—" a razor-sharp grin lit up his face. "Now I can officially call you my ride and die—how 'bout that?" He started giggling.
God damn you, Mr. Redd … And you, Mr. Carter, most of all …
His smile fell to a concerned frown.
"Come on, why the tears?"
Was she crying? She hadn't noticed.
"… You promise, it'll just be dinner?"
"Just dinner! No funny business. Hour, tops. You can stay in the car."
"Tomorrow?"