Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Kris’s movements relaxed in the bed, finally. The music, while more muted compared to the hour before, still was able to be heard from upstairs. A pillow atop their head finally did wonders in getting them to the realm of the unconscious.

Meanwhile the soul still waited in its literal cage, nothing to do but to gently collide with the bars, sometimes hitting them to mimic the sounds of tunes it has heard before in the span of a few days. Incapable of having the ability to sleep in the same sense as a human or monster, all it could really do was wait.

It wanted to see everyone again. 

It is eager to see what else this miraculous world had to offer.

It can’t wait for tomorrow.

Almost like a reply, the sounds of the rain came to a halt. 

A voice that the soul doesn’t recognize echoes in its head. 

Poor songbird! Are you bored in your lonely little cage?

It jumped. Rotating its body in an attempt to try and look around.

The voice sounded nothing like the one it heard when it was called here. Nothing like anyone it met in its journeys either, yet it still sounded familiar. It sounded a little scratchy, yet a little upbeat—a little optimistic even. 

Like a friend.

Kris doesn’t stir in their bed, doesn’t react, the mysterious voice appears to be only talking to the soul itself. It wants to question ‘How?’ but its actions were limited once outside of Kris.

Then, the voice, in its best demented impression of Ralsei it could probably make, continued:

Wouldn’t you like to be free just for a little bit?

The soul dims, retreating further in the birdcage, a grant of temporary freedom only to stumble along its first steps. To forget how to fly.

To stretch your wings?

The soul does its best attempt at laying down, imitating Kris in muffling noise despite the lack of any pillow—or rather any object—in its vicinity.

Don’t you wonder what your town is doing right now?

That’s when the soul paused. 

Does it? 

The town is flourishing, the town is wonderful. It’s more alive than ever and it is all thanks to the fact that the team has made sure everyone gets to make it.

The town does not have two monsters doing the jitter bug while a child is trying to sleep. 

The town does not have cryptic phone messages and the dreaded feeling of isolation despite blaring music just downstairs.

Even if it doesn’t know the source of the voice, if something scary happens, it can just return back.

So the soul decides yes. Better than rotting away in this cage at least. It’s not like the red heart itself is transported away whenever this happens—not that the soul knows of—unless it’s a fight.

Yes. The soul whispers. Uncertainty still lingers, the soul’s glow dimmed further in apprehension.

The voice rings with hoarse, loud laughter, and the familiarity strikes back. Just what was so familiar about this?

..How interesting. 

The soul is caught by surprise when it feels the violent, ever-familiar motion of being grabbed.

Then let’s close our eyes!

Suddenly, Kris’s room grows darker. The soul is given the same feeling when it is brought somewhere else. Well, not physically. It’s no different from the times it has checked in on Susie. A strange feeling in its core brightens just a tad bit, just a little enthusiastic from making a decision on its own, separate from its vessel.

Castle town, to no one’s surprise, is doing well. 

Whatever chicanery Lancer was doing with the other darkners seemed to have disappeared. No more sounds of the tuba and rapid footsteps playing in the middle of town and everyone seemed to be focused on their own thing. 

It grew curious to see how the building is going through. Were there any new plans? New buildings?

The soul tries to move. To see any new, wondrous sights that castle town had to offer.

But when it tries, nothing happens.

Its body, the soul isn’t there. And neither was Kris. 

It can’t move.

Even with a lack of a proper form, the soul shifts uncomfortably.

It seems like whatever brought it here has full control of deciding where it should be.

And like a heel turn, it was abruptly taken to the flashy, bright TV building where the magic of guitars and cat-petting happens.

Invisible, it went by darkners without any trouble. Straight towards the room furthest from the entrance.

Mike..?

The green walls littered with stars that reflected on the familiar checker-board flooring, distant jazz music that permeated throughout the room, the cat statues, the hallways..

This place.. Was it not destroyed and repurposed? 

Yes, It has visited the Mike room before. It swore it did. A bright light shone down when it made its way to the Roaring Knight. Kris alone had to deal with the three, and the soul achieved new abilities it didn’t think possible.

The hallway was inhabited by one darkner only.

A maus. 

The very same that assists them against the Mikes. 

As if it sensed its presence, it transforms into a hand. An ‘imaginary’ force dragging it forward, a puppet that continues to move in spite of broken strings, a dog that runs with a leash still attached.

The soul imagines the feeling of shifting right, and the maus follows. It shifts to the left and it follows the movements all the same. Just like the first time the soul arrived in the room with Kris, the maus doesn’t seem to mind this loss of control in the slightest. 

The maus moves in a very clunky manner, more than what the soul remembers, like using a long and heavy stick to interact with the world, rather than the simple motion of using your hands. The soul wonders whether it's a case of the absence of Kris or the absence of the soul itself, the sensitivity in which it moves.

“Cool..” The soul can’t help but utter.

As the soul, or rather the maus, stumbles along upwards, the familiar scene presents itself. No longer was it a dark room, it’s the familiar scene of a lone green pippins attached to a corkboard like a lifeline. It feels like there’s more red string than usual than the last time its seen this place before. He mumbles to himself indefinitely, vowels and syllables mixed and incomprehensible. Coffee in hand, the contents shaking rapidly as he tries to attempt an impossible breakthrough.

With a lack of a proper vessel, the soul doubts it could say anything to him.

It remembers screaming and screaming in this very room, but neither the Mikes nor Kris gave any recognition to the strange garbled attempt at a voice as it dodged attacks and patted cats.

It’s still worth a shot.

The soul attempts an impression of a deep breath and speaks.

“Can you hear me?”

“Huh?” The pippins turns around, his eyes catch onto the floating, maus-hand without a master.

Patiently, the soul tries again, “Hello? Can you hear–”

The pippins trips on air as coffee contents fly.

“WH–”

Chapter Text

The pippins staggers as he chokes on his drink. The liquid that flew in the air had bits of its contents fall off the cup and land on his overcoat. Judging by his reaction, it must’ve been coffee straight out of the maker. Not really a surprise by any means, given the stacks of paper scattered on the floors, the corkboard filled to the brim of unfinished theories and broken dreams.

“Ah shit, yeah, yeah. I hear you.” He gathers himself as he dusts liquid off his coat, to no avail.

Unfortunately, the soul chooses to focus on his words rather than the terrible predicament of searing coffee stains.

Someone..

“Oh my God!” The soul exclaimed. Someone finally hears them! Someone actually acknowledged its voice! 

Other than Kris, of course. 

But the soul doubted Kris would be down for a peaceful conversation. Memories from hockey sticks and syrup bottles worn like a badge of honor—or scars of war.

“You can hear me!”

The maus hand extends forward to reach the pippins, who backs away in turn. He doesn’t seem to be in the mood for petting.

“WHAT even–” He swats at the hand to point, then at the arm, then whatever his eyes try to focus on, all over the room. “Were you ALWAYS able to do that?”

“Able to do what?”

“You’re talking! Like that!” His eyes darted everywhere, not knowing where to rest his gaze on.

Now the soul is confused. Maice were capable of speech, weren’t they? It’s muffled, small, and squeaky, but you could distinctly make out a voice. 

“What do you mean?”

“It’s EVERYWHERE! I can hear you on ALL sides of the room!”

..Huh..

Is it like a microphone? Is the volume too sensitive? Too loud? The soul could just go back to the crystal ball right now but its focus lies on the pippins.

“Uh– I’m.. Not what you think I am?” It tried to reassure, lowering the volume of its voice to try and make him feel better.

Instead this seems to do the opposite effect of that the soul intended, because what initially was a look of acceptance was his eyes widening as he stares at the source of the voice.

“I’m talking to a maus.” 

The reality of the situation settles in. The pippins begins to laugh to himself, steadying his head as if it was about to spin at any moment.

“I’m TALKING to a MAUS! A HAND! An OMNIPRESENT-maus-hand! Have I finally lost my mind? Is this a vision? A dream? A cry for help? Maybe I should’ve listened to…”

He mumbles further.

“Wait..” He pauses in the middle of his theory-making, pointing at the floating hand. Has he finally found… “Are YOU Mike?”

Or is this truly yet another dream that sprouted from his own desperation, his inner pleas? A merciful deity from a higher plane of existence suddenly deciding to have pity on him. Taking the form of an avatar to communicate with those seeking enlightenment?

The wildly varied reactions back and forth like a metronome, an indicator of the consequences of running only on caffeine.

“What, me? No, no! That’s what I’M trying to find out!” The soul defends itself. “I don’t know who Mike is either!”

“So you don’t know.”

Battat looked like he was about to pop a nerve, if he had them. A small ‘heh!’ escaped his mouth as he tries to figure out what he’s even doing with his life.

“YOU DON’T KNOW?!”

The soul’s faux hand drags itself upwards, and if it had another it would have been raised too. A mutual sense of frustration between darkner and whatever the soul is really supposed to be. It seems even the voices in the former’s head had no clue what Mike even is either. 

“I don’t know!” The soul begins to laugh with him, almost desperate. “I genuinely don’t know and that is the problem!” 

Battat sinks into the floor. Hopeless and upset. 

The soul feels a twinge of sympathy for him. Wouldn’t it be crazy to be granted a vision of an angel or God or whatever higher entity is out there—At least what the pippins can only assume—asking them to show you the way, only for them to turn around and say ‘Hello there! This time, you’re on your own!’

Defeated, he rubs the side of his head. It gently rocks, digits careful not to make his head spin—literally.

“Well, shit. Makes two of us, then. Or four.” He mutters the last part. 

“Yep.” The soul said, popping the P. “I’m just as confused as you are.”

It was a wild goose chase—or cat chase in the eyes of many or few—that will seemingly never end. Not until this story is over. But maybe the soul is wrong. Maybe everyone is wrong and ideas will still sprout in spite of a closed book.

No. The soul believed. Mike is important.

Perhaps it was sympathy for the fallen theorists, perhaps it was throwing him a bone, but the soul blurts out words before it could even think.

“Uh, wait! How about I help you?”

“Huh?”

“I can help too, y’know! About Mike! There’s three of you, isn’t there? I also have my own ideas, as to what Mike is supposed to be..” Just because there were years of theories, ideas dashed in an instant in just one day, it’s not impossible to assume that at least one of them was correct. What did Berdly say again? ‘Broken clocks are only right twice a day.’ 

..Somehow that didn’t seem right.

Regardless, the stars have aligned for them to meet this Pippins, perhaps this is an opportunity to have its curiosity satiated. 

Whether it was the soul or Battat? 

Yes!

“Really?” He questions. “You? Have I even seen you before in TV World? Have you been to the TV world before?”

“..Something like that.”

Is that really enough to convince someone who has probably known the place like the back of their hand because of their boss?

The pippins squints. Even with his lack of sleep, he was still capable of sniffing out what was the norm in the TV world and what wasn’t.

There were maice in TV world, weren’t there?

Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all–

He looks at the corkboard, then back at the hand and shrugs, “What the hell, sure.”

..And the soul stood corrected.

“Wait, really?”

“You already know enough about the conspiracy, what choice do I have?” He huffs. “Besides, if I throw you out, you might snitch to Tenna if Kris already hasn’t.”

“Don’t worry about that!” The hand waves, and Battat still backs off—still refusing to be anywhere near it let alone getting patted.

Pat– pat. Pet? Pot?

“Patpat, battat, matpat..” The soul snickered under its breath.

“..What?”

“Nothing!” The soul emits a loud cough, “Anyway! I’m going to take a look at the board.”

Battat nods, and crosses his arms, almost a little proud to show off his handiwork to someone who was willing to listen.

Without Kris, the corkboard seems a little clearer to read now. There were pinned papers stacked on top of other papers, pictures and documents. It recognizes some of them as lighters, darkners, and others it doesn’t recognize. There’s drawings too; varying styles in representation of the group of three.

The soul initially would have wanted to lift some of the papers, but it didn’t quite trust itself yet. Not with the hand being as sensitive as it is right now.

It recognizes some phrases. It almost feels nostalgic about it. Ideas upon ideas, theories upon theories, years worth of brainrot and team effort was taken to make this ongoing case a reality.

“What are you doing?” The soul asks as Battat begins to walk out of the room.

“Gonna change.” The pippins gestures to the coffee stains that covered bits of his overcoat. The soul finally realized how it didn’t even notice that. “And gathering papers for the evidence. You said you wanted to help. You..” 

He looks at the hand once more. “What even is your name? I can’t just keep calling you ‘hand’ or ‘otherworldly voice’ or whatever.”

Like a true, classic, RPG, it would take the soul a long time to settle on a name. And, just like an RPG, it would never settle for anything other than the intrusive thoughts that rest upon the soul despite the protests to do otherwise.

Don’t say it, don’t say it, don’t say it, don’t say it…

“Mike.”

He frowns, unamused, not even believing it in the slightest at this point. The soul coughs again. 

Tough crowd..

“..You can just call me Soul.”

“Right then, ‘Soul.’ ” He says the name almost as if he doesn’t believe it. Wait, so does he still think it is Mike or not? “I’m Battat.”

“Got it.” The soul pretends that this is new information. Like it didn't just mutter his name not even a while ago. “Isn’t it really late for gathering evidence, though?” 

Do darkners even need sleep? Well, Battat needed coffee to operate and that was evidence. Unless Tenna just overworked him that badly before his other two buddies showed up.

Do they know about the rising and falling of the sun? Is there a clock that worked exactly as intended? Do they have a sleep schedule that they have to follow? 

If that’s the case, why was the castle town built in such a short amount of time? Is the perception of time among dark worlds skewed? 

Why can the soul suddenly talk just fine all of a sudden? Why is Battat able to hear it? Is it because of the voice? In fact, where was the voice that took it here in the first place? Is it watching them both?

The soul has many questions, and perhaps prolonged exposure to a certain someone running on nothing but coffee and misplaced hopes and dreams would begin to influence it. It hopes it doesn’t begin to develop unique personality traits from this experience.

It is sure it already has by now.

..Nah, it already had them. A long time ago when it first opened up this story.

“This isn’t anything since TV world. And we shouldn’t really CARE about that—visions, dreams, et cetera, are the BEST method for discoveries. I would know.”

The soul chokes out half a laugh.

Almost like looking at a mirror.

Chapter Text

“Trust me, Soul, with all the stuff that has been going on with Mike, nothing fazes me anymore.”

The souls’ hand pauses when it sees his eyes twitch for a fraction of a second.

“But, the maus–”

“NOTHING.” He repeats, his eyes continue to twitch. “Fazes me anymore.”

Somehow, Battat installed a table next to the corkboard. A strange, exclusive feature just like the hats, the cats, and the ability to play strange minigames. Such ease of access to various quality of life objects and activities, it’s no wonder this was Mike’s home base.

Not even a few minutes worth of discussion in, and it’s already devolved into an endless rant from the aforementioned pippins about his job. Not that the soul is complaining. Can’t really say anything about it when even the soul—in spite of its space-time abilities—struggles to even find a speck of the actual Mike.

Even more papers were scattered about. It seems like the corkboard is just a small fraction of Battat’s true powers. And the soul admittedly wanted a taste for more.

“It makes NO SENSE!” He’s already putting his hands on the side of his head. “If I didn’t do it, if JONGLER didn’t do it, if PLUEY didn’t do it..”

The clearly un-fazed pippins has dealt with Tenna more than the soul ever dreamed of. Unfortunate, but it’s the truth of the situation. The soul would have been lying if it said it wasn’t curious about Tenna’s nose drawer.

“..Then WHO did?! What do you think?”

The soul isn’t the one with the clues! If you count, well, the forbidden knowledge.. And the theories.. And the despair from the wrong ones.. And the–

“I mean what else do you want me to say other than Mike?”

“..I can’t get used to that.” Battat winces at the volume of the noise. “I just want you to prove me WRONG! Or.. RIGHT? Or ANYTHING!”   

“You deal with Tenna all the time, though.”

His face flushed a bright pink. “T-that’s different!”

I know what you are..

“Right.” The soul says instead.

“What if Mike is a dragon?”

“A dragon?” Battat waves off. “We actually thought about it. Pluey brought it up once, he was a fan of the idea, but it never really went anywhere. The third board minigame was too recent, there couldn’t have been a lead.”

“Really?”

“Believe me, we’ve checked.” He lifts up a paper on the bottom left, a crude drawing of a dragon is depicted, and the soul vaguely recognizes it as the costume Susie wore during the locked special game.

“I checked the costumes, I checked the houses. Jongler checked them again, and I made sure we checked thoroughly . Inside and out. Pluey even destroyed and rebuilt the set and he saw nothing.”

Uh. A flash of a magazine flashes in front of the soul’s mind. Did that thing ever become a darkner?

“What about the purple dragon?”

“You mean um–the lightner?” He blinks. “I told you, we checked the costume already. Even after they all used the set.”

Sidetracked, the soul now wonders about the possibility of Susie being Mike. It might be possible. Hypothetically. Totally. You can’t prove that she isn’t Mike. Have they ever been in the same room? Except it’s impossible to prove such a thing since ANYONE could be Mike. 

It could be Mike, a double-identity that it doesn’t know of. Maybe, after all of this, the Sheriff Mike’s words will ring true that ‘the real Mike was the friends inside them all along’ or something like that.

And How to Draw Dragons isn’t a darkner, apparently. Well, neither can a notebook be a darkner. Or a hairbrush or pencil. What are the qualifications for a darkner to have sentience, anyway? What decides their role as either a living thing or an item or weapon? The memories? The subconscious?

The soul pauses in the middle of their thoughts.

Good lord, maybe Battat is influencing them.

Battat shows no sign of surprise in the slightest that the soul had no other options but to return to the drawing board. It suspects a growing frustration building up in his chest.

“What about a flower?”

Battat points to a drawing of a golden flower in a cowboy hat, it’s separated from the rest of the papers attached to red strings but it still remained up nonetheless.

“Jongler’s idea.” He huffed, but it seems like a more fond one rather than an exasperated one. For a moment, it seems like his growing frustration subsided, if only for a moment. “They tend to stick around whenever Mr. Dreemurr’s cowboy shows aired. So the idea was more of throwing something at a wall and seeing what would stick.”

It takes all of the soul’s willpower to keep itself together. For it not to blurt out anything rash, they decide to avert their gaze on the photo by covering it with the hand. Just enough to brush against but not actually touching it.

“They always saw him as a role model.” The pippins returns to look at the soul. “It doesn’t mean we didn’t try to test the waters, but anything related to flowers are rarer in TV world now. Used to be a lot more common. Not ever since..”

The trailing of his voice gave enough of an indication.

The soul tries to change the topic. Thinking about the unfortunate implications of a man whose destiny is set to be ‘trapped in asylum’ did not do wonders in its concern over the safety of the lightners it was supposed to be looking after.

“Um, have you checked Tenna’s nose–”

“Yes.”

“And his–”

“Yeah.”

“Uh, what about his–”

“I did.”

“Wait, then how about his–”

“Yes, especially that.”

Oh, so it is like that.

That aside, the idea was worth a shot in the end. Hard to argue with the guy who deals everything about Tenna down to his nose drawer. Really, the soul did feel a twinge of jealousy over that. A nose drawer! Even massaging his antennas and tucking him to bed?! Nobody would know Tenna quite like Motormouth Mike. Before the soul’s form back with Kris turns green in envy—or in kindness?—they go back to the drawing board again. 

Almost everything they both went through, there is nothing of note.

An endless ping-pong of lack of evidence, they really were just devolving into throwing stuff at a wall.

Is this what they both went through everyday back then?

“What if he’s a microwave?”

“Oh, what, because there’s ‘Mike’ in the name? What is this, another one of your antics?”

“He’s a criminal!”

“How can we even TELL if we don’t even know who he IS?!”

After Tenna, the soul realizes that it’s best to take whatever Spamton says with a grain of salt.

“Fair!”

“He’s a chess piece!”

Has it ever seen a rook darkner? It didn’t think so. The bishop, the pawns, and the knight are already covered. What about the others?

“FALSE! Tenna has been talking to Mike longer than the chess pieces have been around!”

Huh, that’s interesting.

“What if Mike is a phone?”

“That– Actually sounds plausible.”

Like flipping a switch, Battat’s face twists into a scowl. 

“But for every plausible one we find, we still don’t have a lead!” Battat raises their arms in frustration, papers thrown in the air. “I swear there’s just something we’re MISSING!”

“Well, not that we know of.”

“Oh, don’t get me started on that.” He skitters closer to the soul, making eye contact with the hand.

“You think I haven’t looked through EVERY corner in the TV world? You think I haven’t considered every idea to date at least multiple times? I know EVERYTHING like the back of my hand. It’s just..” His wild gestures began to imitate the look of tweening in an animation, slowed down to look at each individual frame. “Maybe I still need to FIND IT.”

Whatever the key was that he’s supposedly looking for. The soul hopes he does find it.

“What if Mike is the friends inside of us all along?”

And the soul failed to keep it in.

Battat paused. As if what the soul said was the most outlandish idea so far.

“..What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Well, it’s just a theory..”

“It’s a STUPID theory.”

Chapter Text

Battat wasn’t going to question why a voice out of nowhere is suddenly assisting him in his endeavors. 

Even if this is all another dream, even if this is just his brain playing tricks on him, he presses onward. Still clinging to the hope that maybe, just maybe, this is the one. This is the thing that will give him his breakthrough on the true Mike.

“Pink and yellow.. Pink and yellow.. Oh! A friend! Watch out for those teeth, they bite!”

..Except..

“Watch out. To the mashup artists out there…”

He’s noticed something..

“Maybe this place has a super-secret-SECRET if I pat Pluey six-hundred and sixty-six times..”

Whether this was still a dream or not..

“Wonder if I can get a high score on it this time.. Don’t want to listen to Grandpa Semi again..”

This.. ‘Soul’ character..

“I wonder if Sans is in Super Smashing Fighters..”

..Isn’t taking this SERIOUSLY at ALL!

He sees the way the hand moves. It sniffs around the room for small specks, it constantly bumps into the walls, it tries to pat him on every opportunity as if he still had his suit on.

It constantly cracks jokes that he wouldn’t hope to understand whenever they start to discuss. Mumbling it under its breath when it clearly doesn’t know; that this isn’t his first rodeo on dealing with loud and booming voices. He used to deal with Tenna alone until Jongler and Pluey arrived, after all. He could HEAR Soul’s mumbling the whole time. Sometimes he hears the occasional clacking associated with the likes of Cybercity, sometimes he hears the noise of cracking open a soda, sometimes he hears sneezing in the distance and he doesn’t want to debate with his totally not sleep-deprived voice in his head that he has to go to bed.

No, no, no, he HAS to get to the bottom of this before he even THINKS about the warm covers that call out to him every time he ignores the prominence in his eyebags. Pluey volunteered to deal with Tenna tonight—Curse Kris for changing the high score, whose idea was it to put that bomb in there anyway?—and Jongler has a consistent and healthy actual sleep schedule.

What he clearly figured out first: this thing is playing tricks on him.

It knows something. Battat knows it knows something and it chooses not to tell him. That’s fine. That’s okay. Battat can live with that..

NOT!

Because WHY?

WHY go this far? 

Is he being toyed with?

It did sound pretty genuine when it wanted to know more about Mike.

It–Well, it APPEARED to be reading the contents of the corkboard, and it did sound interested in his side of the story. For a lighter–darker–or whatever Soul is supposed to be that has never been in TV World before, it sure did seem knowledgeable enough about certain topics.

Battat’s been around for a while, when he was nothing more than a green pippins trying to find a way to match with the others. He didn’t have any strong feelings regarding the Dreemurrs, but he’s sure the other pippins couldn’t say the same. They adored being shaken and rolled around, while Battat was the opposite. Instead, he would rather be left alone, unable to handle the energetic and easygoing personalities of his peers. And compared to the rulebreaking reputation that pippins were known for—that he sometimes indulged in for the sake of fitting in—He had an interest and flair for theatrics.

Why else would he have signed Tenna’s contract in the first place?

He’s seen the guy on his great days, his good days, his bad days, his VERY bad days. And on his very bad days, his pippin-brethren were usually the most active. Tended to huddle together in Ramb’s bar; some with drinks in hand, some on the floor out cold (and then escorted out by the exasperated Zappers), whispering, giggling, and talking about the good ol’ days before TV World was founded. 

It interested him, he remembered. That there were darkners out there. Rumors and gossip of those that belonged in the Dreemurr household and those that were old enough to witness everything outside. Those that didn’t like the terms and conditions Tenna set out for them.

The contracts made by Tenna were deemed too demanding by some. And instead of arguing about it, they resigned to their fate. Forever out of the business of entertainment, and destined to wander aimlessly in frozen wastes, watery basins, and metal deserts. 

At least that’s what he can recall.

But that’s all it was: A recollection.

When the passage of time is too much to bear, rumors become but a blur. The ability to decipher what is fact and what is fiction becomes more and more unclear.

Even still, his endless curiosity is never satiated for long.

Because perhaps Soul is like that? One of the rumored darkners that became nothing more than passing of the wind. Whether it would be behind the couch or under any other type of appliance that was known for getting objects wedged under it.

Maybe this could be what cracks the code. Is this thing doing some sort of devious underhanded tactic that required him to lower his guard? A convoluted A-to-Z plan that ends with Tenna knowing the truth? Or maybe Soul is actively malicious, perhaps using him as a method that could possibly harm his boss.

Does Soul match the likeness of Mike? Another mysterious phenomenon that alters reality where it makes things happen.

Does the Soul, while still not exactly Mike, share the same properties of Mike?

It’s an otherworldly voice. Something that feels like a dream, while not exactly. It’s a maus that’s been with them for a while, and Soul claims to be something completely different. Like the maus was merely just a simple puppet on strings, a vessel or the like.

Is this really something worth theorizing over?

Theorizing..

His train of thought abrupts to a halt.

Oh no.

No, no, no..

He didn’t WANT the Soul to become another mystery to be invested in. He didn’t want the Rabbick hole to go any further than it needed to be.

But Soul could be connected to Mike. It had to be. There’s– no evidence yet, but he’s sure he can cough something up given enough time. He can relay this to Jongler and Pluey. And just in case he could be getting in any danger, he can bolt. 

Battat begins to question his life choices.

Is this really what he should be getting himself into?

Or perhaps this was what I signed up for this whole time as soon as I started calling myself Motormouth Mike?

“Oho, trust me you ain’t seen nothing yet.”

What?

Battat flinches, and looks around by instinct.

Did he say that out loud?

Then he pieces together that the sound of an otherworldly voice that surrounded the whole room is heavily associated with the unsteady, wobbly rodent-like hand that is right in front of him.

The Soul ceased the awkward movements of the maus. Its fingers curled up in an attempt at being frozen in place.

“..Oops.”

Chapter Text

Just what is a soul exactly?

It’s the very culmination and essence of a person’s being. The font of their compassion, the source of their will, the container of their ‘life force.’ 

But ‘Soul’ was different from the moment it connected to this world, an outlier in every sense of the word. 

It distinctly remembers the library librarby. Based on what Soul is aware of, it seems like there wasn’t much extensive research on souls themselves. But it knew. It knew what they were capable of, memories of another world utilizing their souls to its greatest extent. An age of war occurred just because of how powerful of a weapon souls can truly be.

The soul didn’t know how the traditional human soul should behave.

On an unrelated note, Battat is staring at it with alarm and apprehension. It thinks it recalls the same pair of eyes whenever it does something Kris didn’t like.

Stronger and free, the miniature version of the one who holds the controller crawls out of the confines of the screen and into the room. Now just a short distance away, face-to-face with the being that was simultaneously its cage and its observer. A mutual look of uncertainty and caution, it takes a step forward in an attempt to speak to its vessel and

it hears the sound of a sword unsheathing–

“Fuck.” The soul felt its metaphorical heart drop by a mile. From what? It didn’t really know. 

Going back from a certain point seemed safer. It began to hesitate, just hovering over the ability to reset time. 

But what are the odds of an opportunity like this happening again? When was the last checkpoint?

It retracted from Battat, and into a corner, the segmented tails coiled like a snakes’. Some sort of defensive stance to match Battat’s own. A stalemate to inadvertently show no active malicious intent.

“Hey..” It settles on bargaining instead. What is an otherworldly voice without some bargaining done along the way? Just a little bit of diffusing the scene, a little bit of tomfoolery. Light-hearted mischief. ‘I’m not what you think I am’ didn’t seem like it would work a second time, so it opts for the next best idea:

“It’s not what it looks like?”

That’s literally the same thing!

And that seems to make Battat react worse, giving the soul the indication that maybe it's best when it keeps its mouth shut most of the time. Not that there were any other times its voice ruined any plans. Except for Kris’. 

“What even ARE you?”

“Huh?”

“You tell me that you aren’t what you say you are.” He begins as he shuffles more and more to the exit. The soul makes no attempt to stop him. “You mutter and do all kinds of weird things, you’re a hand with a voice that surrounds the WHOLE room!”

“Well– Wait, you've been hearing my muttering?”

“And you READ minds!” Battat finishes. “..Are ya doing it right now?”

It swore it heard uproarious laughter in the distance, but elected to ignore it. They both had other priorities right now. Geez, the soul hates confrontation.

“No! It’s just the louder, clearer thoughts.” Both a good thing and a bad thing. Frequent were the times it saw the inner mind of Noelle Holiday and her not-so subtle way of yearning for Kris’s purple monster companion. Water fountains were a delicacy, or whatever.

Maybe mind-reading a theorist isn’t healthy for the soul—Ha!—but it truly didn’t want the pippins to be afraid of it—Didn’t want anyone to be afraid of it.

“Look,” Soul starts. “I really don’t know who Mike is! That’s the truth! That’s why I’m talking to you!” And that’s disregarding the weird voice that has brought it here but he doesn’t need to worry about that for now. It hopes so. It’s just full of intrusive thoughts and weirdly terrible decisions everyday, isn’t it?

“You could be lying to me. Right now.” He shields his head as if it would help against the soul’s newly-found ability. “I just need to–”

A lie of omission, it thought guiltily. Though, is it ethical to share info that is said to have driven multiple darkners into insanity in some cases?

It stops its brooding when it sees the pippins abruptly hit the back of his head, it shakes and shakes until it settles on six pips. He tries three more times. Each a little more rougher than the last.

Six, six–”..Damnit.”–one. “Okay.”

The soul does a motion similar to an eye twitch through the incredibly limited anatomy of a hand.

“What’s that for?”

“Clears the head. Hated doing that. Don’t know why the others love it. Makes me focus less too, scatters my brain.”

At least it’s a way to make sure the soul doesn’t hear anything. Who knows what the loud thoughts of a theorist could be thinking at this very moment. New ideas overlapping onto old, merging together and breaking away just by the presence of the soul and all the weirdness-baggage that comes with it.

It’s time to come clean. With its identity at least. First and foremost. It rests the hand on the table, keeping it as still as possible.

“Now, give me the truth. The full truth.”

Perhaps something he met in the span of only a few hours isn’t the perfect idea for a fellow conspiracist.

The table, while still having lots of evidence strung around, now had a new member in explaining the effects of a human soul that was less like the title implied and more like an eldritch anomaly with a taste for inside jokes and secrets.

Soul’s handwriting was exceedingly.. Not that neat. Shaky like the times Kris and Noelle played video games with motion controls.

He’s learning all this new stuff just by one.. Disembodied heart?—It better explain the specifics, he hopes—Taking control of a maus-turned hand with access to a voice in here.

At first he didn’t.. Okay, no call him gullible or whatever but he had no choice to do anything other than to believe it.

Because right now when he thought about it..

NO ONE questions ANYTHING that happens here!

And ESPECIALLY back home!

Back in TV World, he along with the other Mikes saw the lightners snooping around. When they fought darkners, there the heart was. It avoided attacks and was connected to Kris like unwanted strings.

It didn’t seem particularly harmful. The soul, he means.

It snuck around, seemed pretty crafty, a separate personality from Kris. That’s what he assumed at first. Human anatomy wasn’t really covered much on TV, so he just accepted that anything strange with Kris is just a matter of humans being different from monsters.

When stuff in the TV world happens, no one questions it. They chalk it up to the work of Tenna, or Mike, or even just shrug it off. 

Everyone just wanted to focus on keeping the lightners happy, or making sure Tenna’s in a good mood, both are most likely. Going hand-in-hand to make sure everything goes well. To an extent.

In the control room, filled with a group of three who managed to find each other, away from the prying eyes of every darkner alike, that’s where his concerns lie. It’s the various questions that nobody dares seem to find any answers to. Why does everything happen? Why does anyone even do anything?

And as his first question the day the lightners arrived to TV World: Why is there a red heart that has to do all the dodging and not the others?

“Not sure, boss.” Jongler replied to him once he questioned it. “Maybe it’s just a human’s thing.”

Pluey nods, even pulling a tone of voice that Battat has grown to know by now. Slow, muted saxophone noises as a method of agreement. He shrugs as he keeps his attention on the screen displaying the lightners. 

“WHY is it a human thing that everyone else is getting hurt?! WHY do they get injured when it’s ONLY the human soul getting hurt? WHY keep it out in the first place?” It’s a good thing they have a mute button here. In fact, Battat believed they kept it on the whole time the lightners arrived.

Pluey trills a noise of.. Reassurance? At least he’s listening. Battat doesn’t really know the specifics whenever he speaks up.

“No clue, boss.” And they just leave it at that. Not even having any room for discussion. 

What?

Is he going insane? Is everyone pulling his leg?

Lord, Battat would never admit it but he did care about the other Mikes. He loves them to death, he really did but..

Pluey was affectionate, got along with everyone. A people-pleaser, an everyman. Moreso compared to the other Shadowguys, at least.  He watches, he listens, and tries to help the best he possibly could. Was never really vocal compared to the others either, and preferred dancing way more. The job of being Mike came naturally to him just fine, but had a tendency to be more anxious once out of the costume.

Jongler struggles at paying attention, occasionally forgetting details and skipping a few lines, but they still try. The former half is what set them apart from the other Zappers. Sometimes they tend to space out whenever he talks about Mike, and it’s up to him to keep them back on track. It was their ability to work with sets, the heavier parts of Tenna’s shoots and props, the ability to settle down the rowdier parts of the staff, that had them truly have their own identity of Mike.

But the one thing Battat has noticed—that neither Pluey nor Jongler ever do—that is only reserved for the pippins himself..

WHY isn’t anyone but him asking the weird questions?!

“So, just to recap..” He already prepared his, what, 2nd? 3rd? 29th coffee for the night for this? As they both settled down, for real this time, at the table. With the maus' stutters and Soul's subpar handwriting being not really any good; It had to be completely up to him to draw words, diagrams, drawings, to further encapsulate the nature of the thing before him.

“You’re the weird heart inside of Kris’.”

“Yes.”

“You’ve been controlling their actions for the past few days.”

“Yeahhh.”

“You’re still back in their house, and now you’re suddenly a hand?”

“Ssssure..”

“And there is still a lot more you aren’t telling me in spite of all this?”

“Mhm.”

“So it really IS a rabbick hole I’m getting myself into.”

“Yup.”

He takes a sip. A long, drawn sip of his coffee before he puts it down, burnt throat be damned. “Fuck.”

The hand attempts to bob up and down, as to agree. “Fuck.” It repeats.

One of these days, he might wake up to Jongler and Pluey looking down at him with concern. Just like how they were all properly introduced. This hand will disappear out of sight and out of mind for a few days and no, that’s just a delusion because Battat has realized too late that he’s already in too far deep.

Was that laughing from Soul just now, or was that something else? 

He’s so, so, tired eager for answers.

“So what, are you an actual otherworldly entity?”

“Something like that.”

“Something like that.” Battat repeats in disbelief. The idea that divine intervention is talking to him in this very room will come off as a shock to anyone. “Right. I’m just going to accept the fact that you are dancing around the truth..” For now , you weird little eldritch-parasite thing. He taps his fingers against the rim of his cup. “Can I at least try to ask questions within your scope of knowledge?”

“As best as I can, yes.”

“What’s up with the game in the S-rank room, then? You and Kris went in there, right?”

“Oh God, I’m so GLAD you asked.” Soul replied. Oh, well at least it’s there to clear some unanswered questions up– “Because I have no idea either.”

He immediately emits a sigh, almost bordering into an annoyed groan.

Typical.

Goddamnit.

“I thought you knew?” Soul directs the question back to him. “You’re kind of the one who manages the place.”

“Tenna doesn’t really care for it, but still allows us in.” He explained. No one really took care of it after the mailman left, and the room left a bunch of shit that Tenna wanted covered up too. Some still used it as a fun little getaway from Tenna, a place to hang out. But, it’s mostly Ramb who looks after the place.

Speaking of which, where was the guy? Did Kris take him with?

“Where’s Ramb?”

“..I genuinely don’t know.” Soul’s tone of voice grew distressed about this lack of information. “Kris seems pretty fond of him. I hope we can find him, wherever he is.”

Again, still a not-answer. But it didn’t exactly sound like a lie.

“What are you trying to do? Like, with everything.”

“Just..” The hand falters, as if trying to dance around the truth once more. “Trying to see a story to its conclusion, I guess.”

“Okay then.” He takes another sip. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just curious. At this point, seeing a means to an end. And hope that everything will get better?”

“Well, guess I can relate.” Especially right now..

“Yeah.” Soul begins abruptly. But it appears to pause for a little bit, lost in thought. “Honestly, it's refreshing. I’m glad there’s at least one person treating me with decency instead of some tool or some device to be thrashed around.” It laughs nervously in-between breaths. “I think you’re the first.. y’know.”

“Hmph.” Battat crosses his arms and lays his legs against the table for theatrics. “Well, I’ve never met anyone else as invested in this as I was..” He continues as he adjusts his tie, and turns his head to obscure a chunk of his face. He is sure Soul can only faintly recognize the smallest of smiles, he hoped it wasn’t looking. “So I guess it wasn’t BAD talking to you. Even if you ARE a little weird.”

Oh, that’s just rich coming from him, but Soul didn’t have to hear that– Wait it reads minds! No! Don’t look at him! He lightly shakes the side of his head.

“Thanks?” It says. Whether his mind was read or not left ambiguous. The hand attempts to reach him.

“Ugh.” On a dime, Battat drops the attitude, disgust written all over his face by the mere idea of mutual compliments and affection—even swatting the hand away for good measure. “None of that. None of that anymore.”

“Okay.” Soul roughly exhaled.

“Oh yeah, what happened to Boxcars?”

“Boxcars?”

Battat tilts his head. “You’ve met them. The scammer.” Wait, that didn’t narrow it down at all, most pippins were scammers in their own way.

“The one with the shades.”

An imaginary ticking of the clock..

..And the Soul starts spazzing out, hand flying everywhere at once. It’s basically the equivalent of a spit-take. “They all have NAMES?!”

What?

Every darkner in TV World had a name! What was Soul thinking?! Did it assume they were all called pippins except for Battat? Sure, he’s the only green one here but that didn’t mean the rest of them were like NPCs in a video game! He doesn’t really have all of their names down, that job is usually associated with Ramb, but still??

Battat’s hands flew into a weird shrug, almost just as confused as Souls’ was. “YES????”

Chapter Text

Jongler’s worried about the boss.

Especially after Kris arrived, all by their lonesome, scouring through their favorite hats, with a weird hand attached to their form like a tight-equipped lasso. 

The boss’s been acting restless since then.

They stopped for a minute.

Because they started to realize:

When was he not restless?

And when they thought about it further, when was there a time they didn’t worry for the boss?

Buddy’s been overworking himself since day one.

When they wake up for the first time to a slightly different roof, it makes them remember.

If it weren’t for the way the boss tires himself, they never would have been Mike.

If they weren’t worried, there wouldn’t be three of them right now.

It feels strange, switching homes so quickly.

Except—other than for the lack of contracts and distance away from Mr. Tenna—it started to sound not so different anymore.

In no time, the boss started to pick up on the routine he had back home.

Their new home did not change the layout much for the Mikes, very convenient. It takes no time to go from their shared bedroom to the Mike Room.

The latter might as well be the boss’s new bedroom, given how much he lounges in there. 

And just like that; it’s TV World all over again.

Like always, he would give out most of the orders, dealing with the brute force of work.

Like always, they would find him messily slouched against a chair, no matter how many times they try to shake him off that habit.

Like always , there were times he skips sitting entirely, making sure he never gets himself too comfortable to avoid the risk of getting his shut-eye for the remainder of the day.

Many times Jongler can remember that consists of them advising him to let them or the other Mike care for the rest.

But he never stayed on the bed for long, the next time they see him is when he paces back and forth near the Mike-board.

Or even busying himself with Mr. Tenna, readying his bowtie as soon as the show starts rolling.

And so, it didn’t surprise them that his side of the bed was pristine. 

Today’s no different either.

Only one day after leaving TV World.

Just more routine.

They’re used to it.

They think they like it.

But they don’t really like it when the boss runs himself ragged.

They’re worried about him, they really are, they have to remind themself.

Because they know the boss is..

Nevermind.

They make their way to see whatever idea the boss has conjured up this time.

Taking a deep breath for good measure, expecting the room at the end of the hallway for the usual scribbling of pencils and scattering of papers.

They hear something all the way to the entrance, like the noise is coming from speakers.

Doesn’t sound very familiar.

Did someone slip in?

Did they forget to lock the door? 

Did they forget about the code?

Is the boss alright?

A protective surge washed over them.

Some troublemakers? Pranksters?

They had no time to consider any possible culprit right now. Something could be happening to the boss.

Face-to-face with the door to the Mike Room, no longer a control room and more like a lounge for the group of three, they barge their way through to come face to face with a potential crime scene before them.

“I’ve connected the dots!” 

“You didn’t connect SHIT.”

“I’ve connected them!”

At first they notice the first voice. It rings from throughout the room, like their entire being was shaking from the sheer intensity.

Then they notice the boss, speaking to the voice—or the maus in front of him?—as casual as he could be.

So something is still technically happening.

They were never one to question the weird going-ons of whatever the boss got himself into, all the brainstorming goes to him after all.

This could have been a case when they caught him mumbling in response to the speakers that littered across TV World. No thanks to the boss barely holding on after one strenuous few hours of dealing with a number of gambling troublemakers with a mix of Mr. Tenna having a very bad day.

Except they knew routine. 

They know what is considered a regular day and what wasn’t.

So, in spite of their main gig as ‘the muscles of the group’, they muster up the curiosity to ask ;

“Wha.. Uh–whaddya’ got there, boss?”

He looks at them as if they interrupted a particular train of thought to be tracked and pinned for Mike-board evidence,

“A coffee cup.” He gestures to the drink and only to the drink.

Before they could inquire further, the hand shakily waves hello.

“Hey there, ever heard of friend inside me?”

Friend in-what?

“WHY is that the first thing you ask?” The boss lightly jabs at the ‘arm’ part of the hand, the segments rough and briefly uneven like a coil of rope, “Do NOT influence them too.”

‘Too?’

“But that’s a cowb..” The voice stops, hand attempting to approach them, “Uh.. Wait, do you mind ‘cowboy’?”

There’s something nice about an otherworldly voice asking for that.

They put their arms behind their back as a matter of politeness, “Cowboy’s fine. Guy’se fine too. And boy.”

“Got it.”

The boss shoots up in alarm, a spike of adrenaline likely after realizing the situation has sunk in.

“What are you even DOING here?”

“It’s morning, boss.”

The voice, along with the hand, shoots up.

“You all have MORNINGS?!” Jongler winces at the loud, booming noise, slightly adjusting the volume before it spoke up again, “How?!”

It used to be up to the shadowguys to measure the time, but now? “Yeah. There’s a clock here n’ everything..”

“Where?!” 

“The castle-somewhere.” Cyber-something. “The cyber place.”

“Cyber CITY.” The boss corrected. He lightly scratches the back of his head. “Wait a minute..”

“Of course..” The voice ponders, the middle finger, index, and thumb of the hand twitch, curl and wiggle—a horrible attempt at snapping them together. “I should have known!” 

“THAT’S where your concerns lie?!”

“I’m not a darkner, I’m not even a lightner! How am I supposed to know this stuff immediately?!”

“Okay, fair.”

Ah, wait they remembered what they came here for.

Maybe the big voice is just very distracting.

They gesture at the hand. “What are you’s doing here?”

It appeared as though it looked at them like it didn’t know what to say or do.

“Uh, look.” The mystery-hand gestures to the scattered papers on the table. “We’re making ideas?”

Suddenly, it briefly turns towards the boss. “..Hey, can I pet them?”

“No.”

“Aww..”

They didn’t exactly mind being pet last time.. As the other two lightly banter, Jongler sees new work on the Mike-board. Ones they haven’t seen before. At least, ones they know they haven’t seen before.

Some improved on old ones, reworked and improved.

They briefly recognize one of the crudely-made drawings to be one of the main characters on Mr. Dreemurr’s cowboy shows.

And then it clicked.

Ohhh.

They get it now. 

There’s two of them.

Another type like boss where there was this need to look for the truth.

Well, not their first rodeo.

“Boss..” They start. “When was the last time you went t’bed?”

“But I still need to figure out what MANCOUNTRY means!” He points at a picture of a red tree.

“We don’t have green..” The voice mumbles.

“AND! We’re GOING to figure out who Mike is, I just KNOW it!”

“Sure, boss.” Having a new buddy or not, they still need to worry over the boss’ health. “Think it’s time for bed..”

They are unsure if meeting someone similar to him would be a good or bad influence. They gesture to the neither positive-or-negative influence.

“You toos, weird maus.”

“What do you mean?”

“I dunno if you’s needs any sleep.” They take one good look at the hand. Didn’t seem any different than what it looked yesterday other than the jittery movements. “But take some. Sounds’ like ya need it.”

“Uh, yeah, sure.” The hand does an awkward little wave, they know they hear the stifling of a yawn. “Thanks.”

Would Jongler have made a different decision?

Not about the whole sleeping thing.

Their mind drifts to TV World. 

About their job.

About Mike.

Sometimes, they thought about that.

This way of thinking stemmed from the monotonous days when Mr. Tenna’s unplugged. Or when the room gets too dark and quiet.

They can imagine the other Mike frowning deeply if they ever said that out loud.

The boss had the dedication, and their other long-time companion had the miraculous ability to solve other’s problems just by lending an ear.

“I don’t need SLEEP, I need ANSWERS!” He yells as he is practically dragged into the covers. Once he’s bundled up, he’ll be knocked out for good. ‘Trapped in asylum’ as the boss calls it.

“You can find ‘em later.” They offer the covers. “Just go to bed, boss.”

The boss crosses his arms and looks away, code for compromise.

“Fine.” Still miffed, but willing to listen. "But only because.."

He falls asleep before he could even finish yawning. Just from the cold pillows as well as the warmth emanating from being wrapped around the covers is enough to make him succumb to counting raindrops out of Elnina or seeing visions of Lanino.

And then, Jongler is reminded of why they’re even here.

With Tenna, with the ‘real Mike,’ with everything else that’s been going on..

What else would the boss have done without the rest of them?

They found this job because they were worried.

They found it because they wanted to help.

And they continued to do it, knowing they were all stepping out of line in the end.

They continue to do it, to worry and to work, because they know the boss is the most committed and diligent out of all of them.

Even with all the strange happenings that show up in their routine..

Being Mike is wonderful.

They wouldn’t have it any other way.

Now by its lonesome, the soul stood there for a good minute, blankly looking at papers and the like.

Has it really been morning for it too?

It hasn’t really noticed the talk with Battat going through that long. Was there just too many theories getting thrown around back then? Too much inside-jokes?

It truly enjoyed this little interaction. ‘Time flies fast when you’re having fun’ as they tend to say. And now that it’s over for today, it needs to return to Kris. 

Maybe they would finally notice that the soul stuck in the birdcage has finally had its strings, its hold on them completely gone. Would they feel relieved? Upset? Its money is on the former.

Not that it can blame them.

It still feels a little bummed out now that it’s over.

Alrighty then..

Enough fun and whimsy for the day, and it was time to return back home.

It’s not really home, but what else can the soul call it?

If it’s morning like Jongler said, maybe Kris is already in Castle Town. 

Or maybe it can go to Susie, it wouldn’t be surprising if she was here. She likes it here and she already left Kris to their own devices. Maybe with this newfound ability to talk, it can tell her about everything she needs to hear. Maybe it’s just wishful thinking.

Or maybe even to Ralsei. He seems to know a lot, has the magic to boot. Maybe he can return it safely back to Kris without them noticing. Definitely wishful thinking.

Maybe it can stay here for longer. Let it sit on its metaphorical thumbs (or thumb?) until Battat came back or let Kris find it on its own. Maybe if its lucky Kris won't even think to check here.

Now, that’s just straight up delusional. 

Realizing its unconventional method of stalling for time, it’s ready to come to its senses and start moving.

Maybe I should just go to bed, it finally realized.

As it first learned, its view of the world changes along with where the hand is supposed to be. The maus hovers and hovers until it makes its way to the end of the hallway, passing through statues and even petting some of them. 

And then, it makes its way to the door, ready to touch the light that only it could see. To at least make this little interaction permanent, to finally follow in Battat’s footsteps and get the shut-eye for tomorrow-technically-today.

..Huh?

The hand forms an open palm, touching the entrance like there’s a glass wall in front of it.

It appears as though an invisible force is lightly pushing the maus back. 

And it looks afraid. The maus didn’t even act like this when it took control of its entire body, or even during the whole time it spent in the room theorizing with the pippins.

“..I can’t leave?” The soul asks. 

The maus shivers, unresponsive. If it didn’t feel like it already whenever the soul tried to wave with it.

“Hey, uh..” The soul whispers as quietly as possible. The maus didn’t seem to mind, it thought it didn’t mind. Was it because the maus stayed up all night? It felt terrible that it even had to listen to both the soul and to the pippins’ ramblings. “Are you alright?”

Perhaps the maus is afraid of being outside? Perhaps it’s just tied to this room?

The soul makes its way back into the room it left.

And then it happened again.

A violent sensation of being grabbed.

Which is what it would say, if it still felt its soul from here.

But instead, it’s the end of the maus that was grabbed, still shaking, still unresponsive. The sudden movement is enough to startle the soul.

It winces as familiar uproarious laughter starts to fill the room.

..Didn’t forget about me, did ya?

The familiar voice of a friend, materializing the rest of its body—finally—right in front of it.

“Been a while, right, songbird? Had fun with the truth-seeker? I sure did!”

Pink and yellow, and topped off with a smile.

“Let’s have a chat!”

Chapter Text

There’s something in the dark.

The soul knows such a belief is a common association with the likes of children, the imaginative, or those who have crammed a bit too much in their busy schedule. 

But such a stark contrast to the tech and bright colors that was Queen’s mansion, and you’re bound to notice something off about this place.

It makes one tiny little heart wonder why such a place had to be locked away. 

And of course, ever the curious one, it had to find out more.

Kris’s footsteps felt louder and heavier.

There’s wires everywhere. Walls and floors are all dusty, all dirty from lack of care and maintenance. Empty, filled with chests that provided almost nothing of use except for one coughed up dollar and some flies. Alligator clips that attacked the soul directly that it suspected were some sort of defense system. How did anyone in Queen’s mansion let this little area get to this point? Will the soul actually find a secret waiting to be found?

And to top it all off, that dreaded teacup ride.

Fortunately, that experience was not what the soul remembered the most.

Before the ride, the exit was sealed off. Right before the ride even showed up, even before the multiple attempts it took to access the wider part of the basement, something flashed in its eyes.

Deep within the dark.

Pink, yellow. 

And a wide grin spread across its face.

Before it faded away.

It’s not sure if Kris saw it.

It’s not even sure if it was even there in the first place.

Disappearing right when it entered the soul’s line of sight. Like it’s aware of the heart’s very presence.

At first, the soul thought it was the salesman, maybe some sort of apparition meant to resemble the ghosts of the past. Why wouldn’t it? Pink, yellow, a wide grin. The addisons, The memories, the stories from the rebel musicians and the head butler.. The details matched up.

And then, during a desperate time trying to uncover something, anything regarding the entity. The same adventure, the same journey over and over again and yet yielding the same results. Sometimes it waited in the spot it found it. Sometimes it backtracked, sometimes it went beyond the boundaries of what could possibly be done in Cyber City.

The trail went cold.

It tried again.

And again,

And again,

Yet still..

Nobody came.

Only vaguely does the soul know about the entity before it.

And none of its conclusions for it good.

Only a day after Kris and the team fell into the dark, where the incomprehensible became comprehensive. And this thing was tailing them whenever it could.

The soul can’t tell whether this thing was a friend or not. 

Is it on the side of those against or for the roaring? Why did it lure them to the teacup ride? Why does it hurt Kris but bring them candy against the fight with the Mantle Holder? 

Perhaps it wasn’t on anyone’s side.

Perhaps it just wanted to watch the world burn.

It’s not easy to piece together the intentions of a creature that goes where it pleases. Whether it decided to help or to torment.

So for now, the soul labeled it as a Friend. As a very, very loose term. At least that’s what is agreed upon.

It’s so damn quiet for a good minute.

The room has dimmed, and it can’t tell where the rest of its body starts and ends save for the eyes. It’s smiling, looking down at it and suddenly..

A red blur flew at full speed towards the room and right before it.

The familiar feeling of a beating, pulsing heart has returned. A vague sensation of a border encloses in its surroundings. It should feel trapped more than ever if it wasn’t doing this for every dark world it has visited before.

It has entered a fight.

The soul can’t hear any music, reminiscent of the first time it showed up in here. Kris wasn’t here to swing their sword to mark the sign of entering a battle. 

It’s so dark.

Friend is the only thing it could see right now. Or was this a case of it choosing to be seen?

Everything about this fight felt so wrong.

With the maus still in its possession, it merely looks directly at the soul. Still, unmoving, like a cat ready to pounce.

The soul regains its bearings and moves. It moves. And why would it even do such a thing when its form came off as a small, cornered animal before the jaws of a predator waiting to clamp down, stupid, stupid, stupid–

“What are you doing?” Friend asks instead, its pupils dilated, following the soul and its glow—yet it was still unmoving in its spot.

The heart pauses in the middle of the little arena it was temporarily trapped in.

“..Isn’t this a fight?”

Friend’s smile stretches further as it slowly tilts its head.

“You think I’m going to attack?” It blinks slowly, one eye at a time. “Why would I? If I do so, you’d be marching back towards your cage! And you don’t want to ruin all the fun that way, do you, songbird?”

That’s right..

When there’s a stalemate, the soul can’t move.

When the opponent never attacks..

It won’t be its turn ever.

This thing knew about the boundaries of the world, balancing on it like a tightrope. While its view on the world can adjust and change no matter where the heart is, it will always be there when a fight happens.

“Your cage is still sound asleep. I’m sure they haven’t noticed your escape. Yet.”

It’s morning and Kris is still in bed?

Actually, that checks out.

Even so, the soul can’t help but agree with the smiley demon-cat for once.

“..Right.”

“Besides, YOU can’t attack either, can you?”

And it’s correct again. What use is a.. ‘Songbird’ without its cage anyway? Just a small little heart that gets knocked down by a single hockey puck and immobilized by tree toppers.

The soul’s glow dims from the memory.

How embarrassing..

As if sensing the soul’s discomfort, Friend barks out a laugh, its body distorts for every breath. No clear and distinct shape for a creature made of shadow.

“Ease up, songbird!” The cat is incredibly animated, using its shadowy body to correctly match its expression, sometimes contorting its face. With a constantly shifting, ever-changing mass, it is unclear what the soul thought it was supposed to be other than a weird-looking cat with a maybe not-so coincidental resemblance to a monster it has seen in another world. And this time, Friend’s eyes narrow, while folding its appendages in front of its face. “We’re just here to talk.”

“To talk?”

“Is this not a room for exchanging secrets and ideas? The real question is why wouldn’t we do so in a madhouse like this one!”

“Madhouse?”

“Aren’t we all in one?” Friend lightly gestures to the messily scrawled papers and corkboard in the background. Of course, the soul had to metaphorically squint. It can’t see in the dark in contrast to the entity before it. “Doing the same   thing over again, parroting the same ideas over and over, until we find a result?”

“A result?”

Well, all of its theories were wrong anyway. A result was a result regardless, and it’s still willing to take what it could get, but the soul is still a little upset over a surprising lack of cowboy-shaped folk in TV World. 

Whilst the soul was internally saluting to the lovely and wonderful ideas that have now been discarded, Friend makes this opportunity to get even closer. Almost touching the barrier that encased the soul but not actually getting inside.

“You sure do repeat a lot of words for a songbird!” Friend tilts its head further until it’s upside-down, curving its neck like some sort of cane or question mark..

“What, so are we supposed to not exchange secrets and ideas during this ‘chat?’” It’s not the soul’s fault that Friend is very interesting. It doesn’t even know what the cat wants!

“Well..” Friend crosses some of its paws together in a bashful way. In spite of this, it never wipes that smile off its face. “That’s a good point. Can I ask questions too?”

“Why would something like you even ask me that?”

“Bzzt! Answer my question first!”

“Fine! Sure!”

An exchange of questions..

The theory-loving brain within the soul is ecstatic for this. Though, deep down it doesn’t have much faith that the cat might even answer truthfully. But when movement and options are limited outside of your vessel, the soul can take what it could get.

“My first question:” Friend rotates its paws before continuing.  “What are you trying to achieve here?”

The direct approach? For only the first question? How bold.

“Exchanging theories.” The soul briefly shifts up, and then returns to the ground. Other than something like Friend, nobody would have guessed it was the equivalent of a shrug. “It’s as simple as that.”

“Wouldn’t it be more fun to test the limits?”

Isn’t it technically asking another question? The soul wanted to ask, but it realized that it would be asking a question too. As for Friend’s suggestion.. 

“That’s probably something Gast–” No wait, too risky to say his name, “–the doctor would want, huh? I don’t think he’ll give me any other opportunity other than this, so no.”

Maybe with the right amount of negotiation, he might listen..

“So you’re saying if you had the chance to go back, you’d do something different?”

The soul flickered, and in turn, Friend roughly exhaled in amusement. Perhaps a nerve was struck, perhaps a pang of guilt began to sting.

“..Maybe.” The heart briefly shook its form. “What’s the deal with this extra stuff then? Did you set it up? Did the doctor? Why can everyone suddenly hear me? Why.. Why was nobody able to do it before?”

Honestly, this one room alone is very unique compared to other darkworlds. Why can’t the soul have more access to minigames? The control on the vessel is not that one-to-one but there should be at least more where it could work. Even the cat minigames didn’t make the soul control Kris and instead have a substitute vessel. What’s up with that?

“Songbird..” 

It uses a tendril, or paw, to point upwards. 

“Don’t you know it’s rude to talk about someone who is listening?”

Suddenly, a looming presence appears on top of the room. Right above Friend. The head of the microphone facing directly towards the soul. A tool that merely captures sound, suddenly able to listen.

If that thing was there the whole time..

“It’s a microphone, songbird! How else were you allowed to sing your heart out in this madhouse?”

It thought it was a trick of the eyes. A hallucination after the mad ramblings of a theorist. The soul didn’t even feel vindicated by this new knowledge. 

“Can he talk? Is he ‘Mike’?”

“Maybe it can, maybe it can’t. Maybe he is, maybe he isn’t.” Friend shrugs. “Try asking it!”

It tries to turn towards the looming presence, but the soul finds its movement is limited inside of the barrier whenever a fight occurs.

The soul makes do regardless.

Surely, with all of the mysteriousness that ‘Mike’ as a whole entails, the soul had to make this one count. This thing is a centerpiece, or an entity that holds many answers that no one else has.

“Are you Mike? Can you talk? Can I pet you?”

The ‘real’ Mike doesn’t respond. It merely flickers before it disappears back into the dark. Maybe he is shy.

Really anticlimatic.

“Damn.” So it’s 3 out of 4 Mikes that the soul isn’t allowed to pet. Or.. 3 out of 5..? 

The soul turns to Friend.

It’ll be worth a shot.

“Hey.. Can I pet you?”

In the corner of the soul’s ‘vision’, Friend’s pupils narrow, and then dilate, like how a cat would. Maybe it managed to actually break character for a moment? At this point, the soul realized its lack of self-preservation, but it guesses that comes with being able to manipulate time to an extent. Except it actually did have to worry about saving right now, so who is holding who hostage?

“You have no hands.” 

The most blunt the soul has ever heard out of Friend, and it’s about the matter of petting a cat. But its words were true. How unfortunate. 

It forms little grabby motions with multiple of its paws, almost like it’s a taunt. 

“If you give me back the maus..” The soul whispered. “I can pet you.”

“What if I ate the hand?” It lifts up the maus, hovering it right above its head.

“No.”

“Can’t really stop me, can you? And you’re not in the position to fight, and especially not in the position to lose right now!”

The soul can’t tell if Friend is messing with it or not. Those teeth, they bite. It truly might just eat the maus right here right now.

Kris isn’t here to find it and it needs to save. The soul can’t risk going back. It just can’t.

It opts for a distraction. A method to buy time, waiting for something to happen. “ So you know about the..” Save points.

“The brighter the light, the bigger the shadow, yes? If you can see in the dark, you can pinpoint where the light is.” It winks. “It’s how we survived for so long.”

Huh. That’s actually pretty useful.

But that makes the soul wonder what other horrors are aware of the ability to manipulate time? Able to know about the soul and what it’s truly capable of? Able to nudge its attention towards.. Other.. Routes..

The cat materializes an extra paw just to put it near its face to ponder. “Though, I believe that star fellow you bring around is aware as well.”

…Starwalker?

That was something the soul never would have guessed. A casual reveal, just like that.

Starwalker remembers the time travel?

Starwalker saw everything that happened?

Why doesn’t he say anything about it?

It would love to ask him that, but he’s stuck with Kris. And as much as the soul admired him, it doubts Starwalker would provide a definite answer. The guy always stuck in the farthest corners of Kris’s pockets. Has it ever seen him talk to anyone else other than probably the Weather Duo? It had to make a mental note to at least ask in some way.

The soul snaps out of its thoughts and focuses on the maus who is literally tethering on life and death. It’s hard to come up with ideas and elaborate on them further when there’s a cat holding a hand hostage.

“Where’s Ramb?”

Its eyes narrowed, avoiding eye contact with the soul entirely..

..And then its head snapped back to attention, as if another maus skittered by.

“Who?”

“Ramb?”

“Who’s that?”

“You took him!”

“Took what?”

“The power cord!”

“Power cord?”

Is Friend messing with it? Does it not know? But it had to know. Who else was smiling inside of the vending machine? Who else gave Kris that controller? It had to be the one!

“He– TV World! He disappeared!”

“Can you stand on your head?”

“What?”

Before it could even elaborate, the doors slam open. 

With light falling over the room, Friend disappeared. Its smile and laugh being the last thing that fades away. And in turn, it drops the maus, roughly landing from the cat’s hold and onto the floor.

All of a sudden, the tension is released, the soul doing perhaps the longest wheeze it could ever do in its life. The maus is tipped over, relieved. 

The soul had to go to it. This thing has probably heard so much information and went through its life flash before its eyes that not even a ‘Are you okay?’ would be able to do the trick.

It’s still stuck in a fight. The soul still didn’t fly back into its cage. Is it because of the maus?

Right behind it, the light from the opened door casted a cat-shaped shadow onto the maus and onto the soul.

Did Friend change its mind? Is it going to attack both of them now?

The thumping of footsteps draw closer, and then the soul hears..

Saxophone sounds?

The soul turns around and is introduced to pink and yellow, topped off with a frown.