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🍫 What is your favorite dish?
🍫 COCOA BEAN HAS RECEIVED YOUR LETTER! 🍫
As usual, the young man was busy in the café's storefront, balancing coffee cups with well-trained precision across his forearms as well as holding two flat on his palms. This was a trick usually reserved for plates, as the larger surface area would assist with weight distribution, but Cocoa Bean was too busy to make that sacrifice.
Part of his duty to Bite’s staff was giving them an eased workload, and that often led to running himself ragged in exchange for his employees’ comfort. With the dazzling grins and jubilant laughter coming from his direction, however, he never seemed to notice the problem until it was time to close up the shop for the day.
"Ouch..."
Aches and pains were temporary compared to the long-standing rivalry he’d been swept into, and he had no intention of backing out. Only White Truffle took it seriously, however - it was a game to Cocoa Bean, and of little consequence to his business. If anything, he wanted to indulge her so that their customers had a better experience.
Like chocolate, exchanges between two rivals could only be so bitter before they became unpalatable.
Even though the café was busy as usual - the hum of contented customers a constant source of noise and disruption - Cocoa Bean had a couple of minutes to step away when his attention was redirected. Sometimes, though work was his passion, he'd find his workers passing him notes scrawled on receipts and order books to give him an appreciated excuse.
This was the case after he placed his cups down at the appropriate table, flashing a familiar smile to his patrons. He was lucky he'd stuck a new pencil in his pocket after the hectic day left him with little other preparation time. He leaned back in a chair, squinting at the ticket with unnecessary scrutiny.
"My favourite dish, you say? I could list many things from my own repertoire, of course... but that would be boring, wouldn't it? This might strike you as clichéd, though I have no distinct favourite out of what I can make. Perhaps the melt-in-your-mouth velvet of chocolate mousse?"
The man paused to wave at a figure coming to the doorway - Basil. Always someone he'd admired, and the companion of his "rival". He'd liked to have thought they were on good terms... he craned his head back to the docket, humming contemplatively.
"Something sweet, surely.
Ultimately, regardless of personal feelings, I just like whatever brings the most joy to those I serve. My own tastes are subject to change too much, see, for me to accurately pin something down like that in an environment where I'm surrounded by all sorts of delicious treats, day in and day out.
Would you allow me to say... 'anything made for or by a friend'? I think that sums up the matter nicely."
#identity v#idv#idv askblog#mike morton#idv mike#🍫 gleeful gastronomy / cocoa bean 🍫#🎪 hullabaloo hijinks / ask answered 🎪
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CHARACTER UPDATE!
Monty, Emerald City Coachman, now uses the 🍀 emoji!
All past posts have had their tags updated with the new tag, which for ease is the same (with changed emoji only) -
" 🍀 iridescent innocence / emerald city coachman 🍀 "
~ Yours, 🎠
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🎾 Were you always interested in tennis? Even from a young age?
🎾 ACE HAS RECEIVED YOUR LETTER! 🎾
Ace was busy, as always, out at the court. Alone, but that didn't much matter. He found his ways to be occupied. His racquet hung loosely at his side, calloused fingers only affording grip enough so that it didn't slip away. He'd just gone through the hell that was restringing it himself, given his lack of trust in others - even though the machines could perhaps do better - and was unwilling to let the work go to waste.
Rubbing thumb and forefinger together, the young man's expression dropped into a sudden and jarring frown. He was more used to a cocky smile, even a smirk, but there was no audience. Despite the tautness in his shoulders that he couldn't shake out, he was usually fine to brush off any minor injury and continue playing.
"Damn it."
He whispered, setting his racquet down gently into its case - leaving it un-zipped, for he'd likely come back to it later - and retreating from the court in search of something. Only after wrapping his fingertips in individual gauze strips, fastened shakily with small portions of adhesive tape, did he lament his own foolishness. He'd cut himself with one of the strings, but didn't tend to it until later.
Distraction came in the form of a bark, and Wick followed. The small dog's jacket contained a pen of green ink and a sheaf of paper, to be used alongside the accompanying letter that he unfolded. Walking to sit on the benches, Ace exhaled for the first time in a while and poised himself to write. It was lucky he was ambidextrous, for he could avoid unnecessary friction on the hasty bandages.
"I've always been an energetic sort of person. That hasn't changed, as you can see. Sports has served as an outlet for my emotions over the years, but tennis just... seems to fit me best."
He afforded himself pause to laugh, lifting his head to gaze out at the court. Despite time-restraining circumstances, it'd kept its position as his place of solace. A break from the hell of it all.
"I still juggle, you know. Acrobatics can be seen as their own type of sport, but I don't think they're commonly recognised as such. My answer to you, then, would be yes. Tennis has taken its place of pride on my list of talents, and I'm already very familiar with the athletics of it all. It's a great way to release some built up tension in your mind.
The inner turmoils of every young person can be eased with a strong serve, and it's even better when the crowd cheers for you after. The match point is never too far away. If you keep going, then I don't see why we couldn't play together some day.
Don't overexert yourself, and more importantly - have fun."
Tucking the folded paper into the patiently waiting dog's pack, Ace was content just to feel the sun on his skin for a moment. Bliss, if only brief. He'd leave the grounds soon, but preferred to go with the sun. Daylight was playing time, and he still had his title of champion to uphold.
#🎾 racquet's response / ace 🎾#idv mike#identity v#idv#idv askblog#mike morton#🎪 hullabaloo hijinks / ask answered 🎪
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🦊 Are there any animals that are notable to you? Birds? Snakes?
🦊 FOXTROT [CUNNING] HAS RECEIVED YOUR LETTER! 🦊
Foxtrot was seated at one of the Banquet's tables, affording himself brief respite from his oft-expected trickery and entertainment. The fallen king of the Banquet was nowhere to be seen, but he paid no mind to such a break in the proceedings. The patrons came and went, though all would return in due time.
There was no cause to stress over something so trivial.
He wrapped his hand in a pale bandage, having unexpectedly cut it during a juggling act, and watched as crystals of ice spread across his skin. He wasn't sure if that effect was a result of his own connection to the frost, or if the Banquet itself was so eager to keep its patrons alive - however mentally twisted, at least whole in physicality - that it made strange things happen.
No chill ran down the man's spine. He was long adjusted to such sensations, and what might have harmed further or exacerbated wounds served to cool. To placate.
Complaints would not be made if an injury was numb.
As he finished tying the bandage, a Banquet Maid tapped him lightly on the shoulder and handed him a glossy black envelope, alongside a feather quill resembling a raven's. He took it graciously, dipping his head to the Maid and beginning to write.
Despite everything, his text remained stained red.
"Birds are strange creatures. I see them more in costume and feather, in symbol, than I ever have the chance to in reality. This hall's windows are glazed, you see, so that the patrons might not catch any glance of what lies beyond the walls. Everything is a masquerade of perfection, one that even I have difficulty resisting.
They see a world that I don't, and I envy them for it. If I were able to spread wings of my own, who's to say I'd be stuck here at all?
Snakes are seldom seen here either, but the seething words of dissatisfied patrons may as well be spat venom, and remain as corrosive to one's sense of self. Being connected to my king, I'm more easily shielded from the bites, but I cannot say it's a pleasant experience in hearing.
The vulpine... foxes, rather, prey on these two animals. They are omnivorous, seeking opportunity whenever it strikes in harsh environments. I suppose I do the same here, in my own way. I'm not where they are."
He afforded himself brief pause, taking the mask away from his eyes and looking at it. His identity was contained in costume. Moulded to fit, and never allowed flair beyond.
"I suppose that's why they call me Foxtrot."
#🎪 hullabaloo hijinks / ask answered 🎪#🦊 foxtrot's foolery / cunning 🦊#identity v#idv#idv askblog#mike morton#idv mike
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🪶 What was robbed from you… ?
🪶 MR. SWIFTS HAS RECEIVED YOUR LETTER! 🪶
The showman sat alone in a backstage area, the lights outside the tent he was performing in - the distinctively red and white striped Big Top, for he was the star of it all - having dimmed for the night. He glanced out to the moon, the dull shimmer of its light only deepening the shadows that crept upon his back.
He didn't want to be so tired. Truthfully, everyone around him thought he'd achieved his lifelong dream, being able to bring the widest smiles and brightest laughter to the people wherever he may have traveled. But there was something that nagged at him, and he couldn't put a finger on it.
A knock came at the door, but he allowed himself a moment of rest before responding. Nobody would come to see him that late unless they absolutely had to, or they were a friend - Miss Oil Painting, as he knew her, often kept him company. They were travellers together, for they'd both been displaced in the same way.
It was only when he took the ruby out of his cravat and looked at his reflection that he realised he wasn't smiling.
The letter was slid underneath the door, boasting neither address nor sender, but he knew it was meant for him. Nothing else was expected of him while the curtains drew, much less face-to-face correspondence. Swifts stood, tugging at his ruffled white gloves, and picked it up in one smooth motion, throwing it in a calculated yet nonchalant arc through the air and watching as it landed perfectly on his desk.
He picked up a glistening blue feather, plucked for use as a temporary quill from his very own outfit, and twisted it about in his fingers before finding a sheaf of paper to respond on. To his dismay, he couldn't do much to suppress the dull laugh of disbelief that burst from his lips afterward. People were just so invasive, even when they had no right to be.
But who was he to deny an audience their story?
"Admittedly, I'd find it much easier to tell you what hasn't been taken away from me. But I think I'd bore you half to death with such a droning list, and I wouldn't want to lose track of an audience established so soon.
There are many things that come and go, you see, but they're not necessarily lost when they disappear. As a bird migrates, they always return to their rightful places. I'm the same. I'd never desert my friends, not if I could help it. So I have a lot of possessions, despite the migratory nature of a travelling troupe."
A single tear dripped to blot the paper, and Mike couldn't move fast enough to swipe it away. He was drowsy, arms leaden and movements reluctant because of the unwelcome sense of dread overtaking his mind. He hated to overthink, but sometimes it was inescapable.
"I've had my livelihood stolen, in essence. My trust has been crushed no matter how many times I try my best to protect it, locking it behind bars... I'm too expressive, see, too willing to give out chances to people who don't deserve them. My naivety is my folly, and there are certain people who prey on that sort of thing.
You'd know well the impact of those people. They're unwavering, vicious and when they bite they don't let go. They just want to see you suffer, and it doesn't truly matter how long it takes to get to an appropriate point. Sometimes they'll just use mental tricks, and sometimes they'll box you in in a million different ways so there's no escape from the torment. There's no way to tell.
But I won't let that happen again if I can help it.
My feathers are pruned."
#🪶 filigreed feathers / mr. swifts 🪶#🎪 hullabaloo hijinks / ask answered 🎪#identity v#idv#idv askblog#mike morton#idv mike
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🎃 Enjoying October City?
🎃 QUINLAN [TEA PARTY] HAS RECEIVED YOUR LETTER! 🎃
Quinlan was far too busy getting up to mischief, as always, to pay much mind to his friend - Specter was loyally delivering the party favours, as he'd always done, away from the toyshop - as they approached him. This was fixed, of course, by the sharp bark of Wick serving as a warning.
The vampire had found himself up in the rafters above the (mostly empty) shopfront, legs dangling over a significant drop. He'd been expecting renovation, but nothing of such a scale. More and more people were being lured to a strange town, and the Banquet wasn't nearly as much fun...
So he joined in, following his uncle to the city, and reluctantly left his friend behind. It was okay, though, as Wick could always find him.
The letters would come, and they were on time as usual.
As he took the envelope into his hands, he breathed in deeply. The scent of pumpkin left on the paper was familiar, whimsical, and matched perfectly with the glimmering orange ink printed onto the paper as he talked. He didn't need to steal another of Fenix's feathers to write - his words would print on the page as if by magic.
"I am enjoying it here, thank you. I'm missing the usual sights, of course, but there's nothing worse than prolonged boredom for someone who lives forever. I certainly hate it, at least. Uncle dearest insisted I come along, but I haven't seen him around yet. I've been following the Count, as he's the most familiar presence.
That Lead Consultant... he and his hoard of cats make me nervous, silly though that might seem, because my rabbits are telling me there's more to them than even I - not a mortal by any means - can see. Perhaps it's just the occupants spreading stories.
Don't you go spreading this around, but I may have allergies to the cat hair. Either that, or my nose instinctually wrinkles in disdain whenever I see his ugly face.
Miss Paper Heart seems the most welcoming soul here, and it's a right shame she's only on the art committee and not a permanent resident. I should like to visit her some other day, but I'm not sure I'll be able to approach her without scaring her off."
And with a puff of amber smoke, laughter ringing through the air, Quinlan disappeared.
#🎃 treats and trickery / tea party 🎃#🎪 hullabaloo hijinks / ask answered 🎪#identity v#idv#idv askblog#mike morton#idv mike
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🫖 What’s it like in the tea house?
🫖 BOHEA HAS RECEIVED YOUR LETTER! 🫖
Bohea was in a back room of the teahouse, applying the last strokes of his chou makeup. Even though the venue was no proper opera house, it brought him comfort to have the familiarity of a mask or some covering on his face. The customers all enjoyed him more when he was fulfilling that role, anyway.
Why would they want to see him for who he was?
He was the lowly clown, and always would be - the smiles of the customers were all he needed to keep himself happy. His own elation stemmed from that of the crowd, so a job like that suited him just fine. Lady Thirteen hadn't found reason to scold him yet, which was the best he could hope for in that environment.
A knock at the door caused him to fumble, dropping the brush in his hand and blotting makeup onto his shirt. He frowned for the first time in an age, wiping frustratedly at it with one hand as he stood to pick up the paper that'd been slid beneath the frame.
He scanned the paper quickly, setting down his brush in favour of a pencil at the desk.
"You'd really find me boring to ask, dear sender, but the teahouse is a lovely place. I couldn't ask for anything more fulfilling than a place in this stage... I doubt I'll be performing in any major roles any time soon, though that hardly matters.
The mere sight of Lady Thirteen is enough to draw more people forth, and that means I get to entertain truly devoted crowds when she's about. I'm just a silly clown, but it's rather comfortable. Acrobatics and such are my strong suit, you see.
All I could wish for is a smile.
Why don't you come and visit? Even if I'm not around, you'd certainly be in for a treat. Do mind the displays, however, because you'll have to pay for whatever you break. Some of those teapots are worth more than I've ever seen in my lifetime...
Be well, and remember - you'll always have a friend at the teahouse. Just ask after "Bohea" and I'll be by your side."
#🫖 teahouse tales / bohea 🫖#🎪 hullabaloo hijinks / ask answered 🎪#identity v#idv#idv askblog#mike morton#idv mike
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" To Sparrow,
How have you been? Sorry for missing your performance, I got busy.
Do you remember how we met?
My mind's been slipping away from me. I miss you.
- Andrew Kreiss. [ @mausoleum-letterbox ]"
🌟 SPARROW HAS RECEIVED YOUR LETTER! 🌟
Sparrow, as always, had found just the right amount of time to stall his performance at the theatre in order to reply. Smarty Pants and her ingenuity were a rather big help, of course, as she'd recently repaired her dearest robot and could send it up to cause appropriate trouble. The two [or three, rather] always shared the fallout of their tricks, but neither seemed to mind if it meant spending time on joyful things.
They were thick as thieves, and mischievous to match.
Glancing back to the hastily 'barricaded' doorway of the practice room, little more than a closet hosting a wonkily carved star sign emblazoned with "Sparrow" on the door, the stuntman wiped a bead of sweat away from his forehead. He didn't want anyone to find him and scold him for the latest prank, much less so soon.
There was little more important to him than his performances, but the people around him were first priority - bringing them joy and whimsy off the clock was just one of his many obligations. It mattered not whether he'd make a crowd of the theatre-goers or of his troupe members, because all deserved it.
Aside from one Ronald of Ness, whom he mocked - "Ronald of Mess" was his proper and deserved title to Sparrow, never corrected on tongue.
He turned his attention to the doorway when there was a knock, standing to pick up a letter that was slid underneath. At least someone respected his boundaries.
The response wasn't as quick as it should have been. The writing wasn't as fluid as he'd expected from Andrew, and the stuntman became hesitant. Much as he tried his best to offer the benefit of the doubt, something about the letter's text unnerved him. Sparrow always thought himself to have nerves of steel, as was necessary for someone so thrill-seeking, but looking at the blunt text made his stomach do backflips without the rest of him.
He did reply, but the pen shook in his hand.
Nothing felt right.
"Dearest Andrew, surely you haven't forgotten our encounter? It was that night, after the performance, when I'd nearly fallen off the tightrope and you were so tense that you called out to me. Our eyes met, and I was able to snap to my senses enough to save myself.
Goodness knows what I would've done if you hadn't been there. I wouldn't be performing now, that's for sure, with quite as much zeal, whether that means I would have been injured or not.
Fright makes colours pale, and you know that well.
Oh, you're fine. Don't be silly! I know that you can't make it to every show, whether it's because of your job or some other ridiculous obligation. You've missed them every so often, and I've almost come to expect not seeing your face in the crowds.
They've become better without you, even."
So he lied.
#identity v#idv#idv askblog#mike morton#idv mike#🎪 hullabaloo hijinks / ask answered 🎪#🌟 shining songbird / sparrow 🌟
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💎 Does Oz have any good music to behold? Maybe you should try dancing as a break someday! Maybe even with Dorothy for fun?
🍀 MONTY [EMERALD CITY COACHMAN] HAS RECEIVED YOUR LETTER! 🍀
The coachman was sitting in his coach as usual, but had steered it off the golden path he so loathed and stopped it in the fittingly emerald grasses surrounding the gates. Sometimes it was a pleasure to truly pause and bask in an outside view of the stunning buildings, the architecture sharp and gleaming, as the outsider he still considered himself to be.
There was still a spark of wonder left, even though the star in his eye was often cloaked from view by his hat. He didn't want to fool those undeserving within the gates into thinking he wanted to be there, not at all. It was simply one more question avoided. The Oz-goers did like to pry into personal matters, especially if they were regular passengers.
They'd learn over time that the only person he'd divulge such information to was Dorothy, whether it took a singular tense ride or multiple for that to register. He was capable of small-talk, sure, but little more was afforded if he could avoid it.
Monty leaned further forward and crossed his arms, letting out a sigh as the postman caught up to him again. No coaches in Oz - even though his was the only one - boasted horses, driven by magical means and controlled by spoken or gestured commands, though the structures still remained. He wasn't in the carriage, but sat out in front of it near where a set of reins and such should've been.
He took the letter, waving the coach to a proper halt. It'd often spin wheels impatiently if he didn't. Writing would be difficult on moving ground.
"You'd be pleased to know, dearest correspondent, that Dorothy comes to me with songs aplenty that she makes up. She sings nonsensical things, but all are lovely to my ears because they're in her voice. She's as close as a younger sibling to me, you know, and shares the bond for it.
She's never asked me to dance for or with her, but I would.
I think she knows.
I've had plates added to my shoes, see, akin to those of use in tap-dancing, and she used to comment on how I sounded like the horses. With the magic of the City, we've never had need for them for the coach, but I enjoy the clicking of their hooves.
I can dance to perform for anyone who asks, but no-one cares to see me in any context other than one sat-down driver.
It's a shame. The wind carries its own melody of chatter and laughter, and I wish I could move to pay it due respect, but duty calls. There will be a time, but not any time soon.
I'll dance with my sister dearest one day."
#identity v#idv#idv askblog#mike morton#idv mike#🎪 hullabaloo hijinks / ask answered 🎪#🍀 iridescent innocence / emerald city coachman 🍀#/ he calls dorothy his sister because he cares about her a lot :)
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🎪 🦊 🛞 Would you go back in time if given the chance? What would you think you do differently?
~ YOUR LETTER HAS BEEN RECEIVED! ~
[ 🎪 ] "Go back in time, you say? Of course I would. If I retained my memory of what tragedy happened now, I'd hold my friends closer and warn of the flames. Try to divert the path in its entirety. I know that it was what had to happen, in the end, to bring new life to an old act, but... I can't say that I'm not filled with regret.
I just did what I had to do to make things progress. Call it back-burning - disaster prevention, all things considered.
If I didn't remember, then who's to say anything would really shift? Sometimes we get thoughts stuck in our heads and tune out all the noise so that we can't hear anyone saying no.
Sometimes ruin can't be changed."
[ 🦊 ] "Why would I turn back the clock now, do you think? Why would I do something so foolish?
You're not in paradise with me. You'd never understand the euphoria that fills the air, that makes every word of the banquet halls' patrons hum in ears and create melody that would make the most stalwart fighter shed tears.
The transcendent beauty of this place cannot be replicated, not ever, for it is suspended eternal. And so it should be appreciated for that time, not stopping.
You're selfish to think I'd change anything."
[ 🛞 ] "You folks really do like to interrupt a working man! Can't say it hasn't been a pleasure, of course, writing these letters out and giving dear Paperboy a run for his money, but I do have wo-
Well. I would have work to focus on if I weren't being pestered by a million different people at once and could choose. They tell me I'm an agent of the Transportation Corp., but I work for just about anyone who needs my help since I've been taught a lot by Repairman.
Go back in time? I don't think I would. Call me foolish, but I've done so much already. It'd be stupid of me to throw away what I've achieved after so long. Of course the circumstances could be better, but that's just the life I'm doomed to live.
My business keeps the thoughts of dread from sinking in too much."
#identity v#idv#idv askblog#mike morton#idv mike#🎪 hullabaloo hijinks / ask answered 🎪#🛞 racing recollections / pumping tires 🛞#🎪 acrobat's acquaintance / base 🎪#🦊 foxtrot's foolery / cunning 🦊#🎪 juggling responses / multi-mike madness 🎪
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💎 Do you remember anything outside of the city?
🍀 MONTY [EMERALD CITY COACHMAN] HAS RECEIVED YOUR LETTER! 🍀
Monty, sitting inside the coach as its wheels rolled to a halt on the golden bricks, was startled to find a postman running in order to catch up to him. Nothing much would draw him onto the Road, and this was no different - he held his arm out the coach's window to pick up the envelope, brow creasing in worry.
Why the question was so important as to impact his work was beyond him, but he waved to the deliverer and forced a smile upon his lips. He never had cause to feel truly happy unless one person was with him, but she remained confined outside the gates until he could bring her in.
Sure, Monty had always had ulterior motives, but he kept them under lock and key. Nobody was able to see what he truly wanted - the City's gleam blinded, but he had never succumbed to its light. He wasn't meant to be there, though nobody listened to his plea for relief. He kept his head down instead.
And he lied with his tongue gilded in more than just silver.
"Outside the City? Why would I care about that?"
The coachman wrote in yellow-gold, ill-fitted to the green of his clothing and the City's haze, but it was something he'd always done. The environment wouldn't shift someone so stubborn. The notebook ever-present in his bag was fraying at the edges of its pages, the spiral binding threatening to come undone, poking at the skin of his hands.
Monty didn't think enough of his own pains. They remained, at best, inconveniences.
"My job and my life is here, so whatever lies beyond the gate isn't important. She... they gave me a better life. The people. I don't need to think about the unattainable. I'm not going to starve as long as my passengers need me, and this City sparkles eternal. Moving forever, smiling and laughing...
The Wicked Witch hasn't been here for a long time. Nothing could ever be wrong, could it? I've certainly not noticed. We live well, in whatever positions are dictated for us, and want of nothing. The same holds for the weary traveller to who you write, your loyal Coachman Monty."
Though his hands shook as he folded the page, he was able to swallow down the fear and pass the note back to the postman. He'd not invested in envelopes, seldom indirectly contacted, and that was the easiest way for things to get moving - including his wheels, he discovered, once again beginning to travel down the golden path.
#identity v#idv#idv askblog#mike morton#idv mike#🎪 hullabaloo hijinks / ask answered 🎪#🍀 iridescent innocence / emerald city coachman 🍀
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🎭 Oh? What’s your greatest wish?
🎭 "JOKER" [JAMBOREE] HAS RECEIVED YOUR LETTER! 🎭
Much to everyone's fitting dismay in the already gloomy Manor, a source of joy had been snuffed out in time for Hallow's Eve - Mike had lost himself in the persona of "Joker", if only for a short span of time, and was intent for all the world not to respond to any questions addressed to his true name.
Letters were going to be no different.
It wasn't clear if it was all a joke or not - the jest of the name was solely paying homage to the usual owner, though he was anything but a joker. "Joker" had atypically hidden himself away from his fellows, donning greasepaint typical of the true smiling clown, and considered everything a simple practice round for the true event of the day.
As the young man's calendar turned to "October 31st", he finished his last strokes of make-up. The envelope slid under his door, and he donned yet clawless gloves to open it. Though the clock had struck in his mind, he'd afford brief correspondences, as long as they didn't take up too much of his fun.
"My greatest wish, you say? It'd be to get closer to her. Gain the respect I'm deserved from my peers, and finally see my ambitions play out. The shows I put on are just a vessel for my true plans, you know, and tonight is no different. The moon gleams high in the sky, and it's a wonderful time to put on a show.
I'm tired of having no reason to smile! These miserable little ants that see themselves fit to be on my stage? They'll never get in my way again. Not while I have any say in it. One of them stole that away from me once, and you should know well enough that I have no intent of letting them pull it off again.
Repeat acts become boring, and flowers from audiences past still wilt.
Why shouldn't I get it all over with?"
#🎭 masquerade's mockery / jamboree 🎭#🎪 hullabaloo hijinks / ask answered 🎪#identity v#idv#idv askblog#mike morton#idv mike
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♥️ Did you catch him?
🃏 "ZERO" ["THE FOOL"] HAS RECEIVED YOUR LETTER! 🃏
At first, there was a heavy and unsettling silence in the room. This was something that "Zero" was all too happy to let hang - he sat out in his tent, preferring the dull silence to any ruckus that would interrupt the thoughts whirling in his mind. These morbidities served as entertainment enough, and whatever others could provide paled in interest.
This was only momentary, like every fleeting emotion the once-jovial young man felt. His ability to express himself had been muted, cut back, just as the colour of his outfit dimmed with time and wear. The fact it was black and white didn't matter: it was still capable of fading more, especially from black to grey.
Similar skies were common where he went.
After a brief pause more, the quiet was broken by the door's shift, and "Zero"'s sharp voice calling out to interrupt it with a warning. The letter was instead slid under the door as it closed, and he nodded as he bent down to pick it up, taking a pen from his desk as he passed. The staff were wise not to interrupt him.
The hydra's seal remained the only colour in the room.
His gaze swept across the script on the letter, and a flicker of shock was evident on his face before it was snuffed like a candle's flame. The pen in his hand threatened to snap as his grip tightened, but his facial expression remained blank and listless as he bowed his head to respond. He hadn't expected anyone to know.
"Of course I caught him. What sort of Acrobat would I be if I hadn't? The man's slow, easily tired... no, no. Le Roy was a fool ten times more than I for thinking he could get away. Unlike some, I cannot be driven to surrender so easily.
What I did next is not much information to disclose... Well. It is absolutely mine and mine alone to tell, but whether you're deserving of that record is another story entirely. I do not appreciate anonymity, dear sender, as it gives me less reason to trust you. My trust is a commodity, soaring higher in value yet.
For all I know, you could be de Ross, hiding to try and draw my secrets out of me. I wear my heart on my sleeve and hide nothing beyond that which is necessary to keep a straight face. If you are, if you are not, that doesn't matter. You're prying with your fingers in places they don't belong, and I'll shut the lid on them.
I'll thank you never to contact me again."
#identity v#idv#idv askblog#idv mike#mike morton#🎪 hullabaloo hijinks / ask answered 🎪#🃏 feigning flattery / fool's heart 🃏#yes thats a promo#but its also context
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🪡 The banquets, how do you feel about them?
🪡 THE PUPPET HAS RECEIVED YOUR LETTER? 🪡
The Puppet was once again approached by a Banquet Maid, holding out his hand to stop her where he danced atop one of the empty tables for all of the guests to have a better view. He didn't intend to demean her, of course, and was just as insignificant to the members of the banquet as any other staff.
It was simple. He had to finish his rounds of entertaining for that time, lest anyone take their discontent out on anyone of higher standing at the venue. Especially not those his Queen had mentioned by name before. Attitudes were fragile in such a place, and the Puppet was wary enough of the situation despite his inability to truly express worry.
He wasn't looking forward to another decapitation any time soon.
Puppets could be repaired, though, and mortal bodies could not. So he took the fall for the Maid, stepping away and off the table with a flourishing bow and taking the letter to a more secluded corner of the room. However badly his hands shook from loosened joints, he wouldn't back away from a duty.
It was with this sense of motivation that he wrote.
"The Banquets? Why do you ask? Are you planning to attend, are you? Nobody often pays the Puppet much mind, a dull little doll such as I, but they are simply the only way I can find any sense of purpose in this strange environment.
Without the Banquets that the Queen hosts, I have nothing to do. Though I have little to continue for in some events, even, stagnancy catches up to me even more when they're not being held. Truthfully, I have no opinion of my own, but I do my utmost to fulfil what is asked of me and spread joy around to the nobles.
It matters not that I cannot share in that joy - just that it fills the air and keeps them all dancing late into the night. For a moment, in these grand Banquets, I almost feel something more than ever before, and I have her to thank for it.
I almost feel alive."
#identity v#idv#idv askblog#mike morton#idv mike#🪡 stitch up a smile / puppet 🪡#🎪 hullabaloo hijinks / ask answered 🎪
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🪡 How does it feel to not be living, yet still conscious?
🪡 THE PUPPET HAS RECEIVED YOUR LETTER? 🪡
The puppet, sitting in the momentarily empty banquet hall, could only laugh to themself. As expected, the sound fell flat, carrying no true emotion behind it. They could and would feign anything they needed to, but they deemed that it wouldn't be necessary considering the aware tone of the question.
Their head cocked to the side, the joint of their neck rolling in tandem to facilitate the movement, and a small smile reached their lips when they thought of a response to give.
It was simple, all too simple, and even a lowly puppet like them could figure out the answer. But something in them wanted a challenge, much as the Queen of the Banquet hated their messing about with her patrons. Expectedly, they felt no remorse for their actions beyond baseline social obligations that were still cast aside all too often.
They soothed themself, however unnecessary it proved, by telling themself it was just how their job was meant to play out. Their sole drive and meaning for 'living', though their animation was a hollow imitation of life.
It was all simply in the name of entertainment, whether it was their own or the banquet's.
"Why do you think I'd have an opinion on such a thing, hm? I don't feel things in the way you do. Sure, I have basic sensations, just enough to move without - theoretically - getting hurt or damaging myself too often, but that's it.
I feel no heat or cooling, no pain or pleasure, no emotion or attachment. Some would tell me I might as well feel nothing. I'm just a blank vessel for Her Majesty's joy and entertainment, after all, because she created me with that in mind.
I do not think her cruel for it.
I do not think for myself."
#identity v#idv#idv askblog#mike morton#🪡 stitch up a smile / puppet 🪡#🎪 hullabaloo hijinks / ask answered 🎪
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🪡 Miss Bloodbath, the Jester, and Lunar Phase. What do you think of them?
🪡 THE PUPPET HAS RECEIVED YOUR LETTER? 🪡
The Puppet sat in his chair, hands folded in his lap and gaze trained blankly forwards. This silence, though expected, hung in the air with an unprecedented weight. It was unsettling just how still he was - not even the boy's chest moved, because he didn't appear to be breathing at all. Yet he functioned normally, paying no mind to the possibility of alienation.
She never told him he had to be humanlike, after all.
He was just a toy to the banquet-goers. Little more than a prop to them. Not even the man who he'd come to be familiar with, the smiling Jester, seemed to care that he was acting absently at that moment. When he twisted his head on its ball-joint, reaching his hands up to move it physically, he saw the Banquet Maid holding a letter to him.
This was a remarkable surprise. He couldn't feel the joy that was supposed to flood his emotions, being one of blank mind and little expression, but his fingers travelled up to trace the red "cheeks" he had painted on his face prior. Knowing that he would have been flushed and positively giddy to receive such a correspondence was more than enough.
Dipping his head to the Maid, he thought about asking for a pen or something to write with, but his eyes rolled around in their wooden sockets to reveal that almost everyone was busy. Of course, there was the Count, but he cringed away from that. Last time he'd asked, when he possessed his original cloth head, it'd ended in his decapitation and partial rebuilding.
What a pain.
So he asked the Music Master instead, and was grateful as ever for the pencil he received.
"Miss Bloodbath is certainly something. I believe she was the one who had me built, so I cannot speak ill of her, but I know better than to think the jewels she adorns are just cosmetic. It's more likely they're hiding something. I will not pry, because I cannot get close enough to the Queen of this Banquet justifiably, but this strange curiosity drives me regardless of my lack of feeling.
Lunar Phase... I have not had the privilege of meeting him, not a lowly puppet such as myself, but I hear he is a great prophet. An asset to my maker and her safety, surely, due to his prediction abilities. Many want her dead, I hear, but she remains safe. He remains at her side vigilantly. Rumours are spreading through the halls that his latest foretelling spoke of tragedy, but I cannot confirm it myself.
Last and closest is Jester. We are entertainers both, though I serve more as passive entertainment... Both of us are outlets for mockery for those who are higher than us, but he has vowed to protect our integrity as members of the banquet. I consider him a dear friend, above everything, and I wish to make that known. Though I cannot feel and express as he can, he would be one of the few that makes me happy."
#identity v#idv#idv askblog#mike morton#idv mike#🎪 hullabaloo hijinks / ask answered 🎪#🪡 stitch up a smile / puppet 🪡
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🛞 Your thoughts on the other Racers? Do you get along with them well?
🛞 PUMPING TIRES HAS RECEIVED YOUR LETTER! REMEMBER TO THANK THE PAPERBOY! 🛞
Michael was once more working on his car, the tire about his neck strangely leaking steam. It was always doing as much, and he'd not payed much mind to how out-of-place it was. It'd burst due to the heat, after all, and the Wintry Harbour grounds were strange enough with that display.
The man worried for the heat, especially because of the appearance of the otherwise legendary Molten Hound. Those off the track, those unaware of the race before it truly begun to be broadcasted, dismissed him as a tale. But he was all too close. Bringing with him changes, too, that Pumping Tires wasn't eager to see the full extent of.
None could know his fear. Not while the race was left unfinished.
So he toiled away, losing himself in the intensity of his workload if only to keep his mind off things. His greatest companion was the Paperboy, leaving him with updates and stories plenty so that he didn't strain himself.
Taking moments of pause was one of the things the young man had yet to learn, and it was luckily being fostered - the Paperboy's dog had given him another paper, and he took up the chalk into his hands again.
"Thank you for writing... You fans do have a knack for telling when I get lonely, I think. Apologies for the chalk. I hope you can read it alright. To tell you the truth, I've been seeing less of them. We're all busy preparing for the beginning of the race, you see, and they're all reluctant to come to the track just to lose time.
Highway Cavalier... I know him better as Cav. He's my good friend, and has always been one of my inspirations when trying to get into the rhythm and chaos of racing. He's helped me along. You'd find that he's anything but cavalier. Dedicated, extremely so, and driven to motivating the others around him. It's certainly worked for me.
Fueling Agent is a strange woman. I don't often see her working, as she's more of an on-site worker - her job is more suited to the pitstops and activity when races are commencing, and can afford to be more slack in her preparations.
Reflective Mirror, on the other hand, is someone I know very well. She and I got along before the racetrack brought us together, and I should hope she continues to be as brilliant as ever. We haven't met up in a long time, but I hold utmost faith in her."
He paused in his writing for a moment, wiping his hands on his pants and letting out an overdramatic sigh.
"Closer still, however, would be the oft-forgotten one of us here. "Repairman", as he's often called nonchalantly, is a soft-spoken and multi-talented man. He and I have grown closer than I thought possible over these few months of race preparation. He's the only one who does visit me now, even when I can see the bags under his eyes from missed rest.
I hope you continue to watch me grow."
Once more, the man handed his letter over to the Paperboy's dog, wiping the sweat from his forehead and pulling his goggles down to shield his eyes as he went back to work.
#identity v#idv#idv askblog#mike morton#idv mike#🎪 hullabaloo hijinks / ask answered 🎪#🛞 racing recollections / pumping tires 🛞
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