Chapter Text
A song vibrated through the walls.
“Hickory dickory dock,” the singer panted.
A pale, thin-fingered hand set itself lightly against the wall. Black nails scraped against the soft, sea-rotted wood, leaving thin scars in their wake. “The mouse ran up the clock.”
The figure was tall and spindly, with a stiffness in its motions that suggested injury. It swayed with each step.
“The clock struck one.” The singer’s clothing had several layers of tattering; shredded black coats upon shredded black coats, like they’d been thrown to hungry beasts and subsequently sliced to ribbons in a frantic search for meat. Its hat, similarly mangled, had a long tail that bobbed when it walked. Straw bristled from underneath its hat, golden and brittle, falling in a crown around its head like hair. A roughly stitched burlap mask lay over its head, revealing only the slender aperture of its eyes.
“And down he run,” it continued, languidly. “Hickory, dickory dock.”
It stopped once the rhyme was over; like its motions had been powered by the words. Red eyes blinked, weakly, and it wet its lips and hesitantly began:
“ À la claire fontaine, ” Its tongue was thick in its mouth, pronunciations childish and clumsy. It began walking again, each footstep slow and heavy, carefully deliberated. Its words became more of a pleading moan, pitched louder, like a baby trying to wail for attention. “ M’en ALLANT FONTAINE —”
“Dear, are you back?” A shrill giggle rippled through the old wood, higher-pitched and clear. The figure stopped at the sound of the voice, a gleam overtaking its eye.
“Jack and Jill went up the hill,” It croaked, pitifully, “To fetch a pail of water. Jack fell down and broke his crown, and Jill went tumbling after.”
“Sorry?” The higher voice said, mildly.
“Humpty Dumpty sat on the wall,” The figure tried again, slightly exasperated, “Humpty Dumpty had a great fall. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put Humpty together again.”
“Hmmm. Come here, Crane,” The voice said. “I can help you, but only if you come here.”
The figure- Crane- nodded solemnly, expression dulling. It hastened its stride, though moaning in protest on the first few steps. It withdrew its hand back to its body, drawing in its limbs.
When it finally finished its walk through the hallway, it came to a large open foyer. The floor was bare and concrete, the walls and ceiling tall, though wooden and beginning to rot. The windows were high and dirty, washing the place with a grim grey cast of moonlight.
In the middle of the room were a few things; an elaborately laid tea-table, complete with pure silver silverware set with jewels and tea-cups made of glinting gold and bone china, painstakingly painted with red roses and playing card decals. There were two ample workspaces, one of them coated with bits of wiring, circuitry, thin slips of metal, and paint. There was an array of slender tools set out, in varying sizes and tip-shapes. There was a scattered pack of playing cards and a few scraps of cloth and ribbon, randomly distributed, and a row of top hats in various states of creation.
The other workspace was larger, more elaborate, with a stainless steel sink and a locked, wire-mesh cabinet, gleaming with dozens of different bottles of various fluids and powders. A centrifuge sat side-by-side with a mortar and pestle, and micropipettes shared space with a lumpy iron cauldron, currently empty. Various objects were scattered about the workspace: a tiny bird’s skull, a teddy bear with its face sliced open, spotless spoons and dishes, smooth stones and shiny bits of ribbon. Bland silver canisters glinted in the light, their nozzles innocuous but unsettling. Lines of needles, filled with a cloudy fluid, were neatly strapped to a leather bandolier. A jar of viscous fluid sat, bubbles caught in the gel like flies in amber, beside them. Small, hard tablets, no larger than a pinkie nail, were piled in a yellow-brown bottle.
A man sat at the tea-table, pouring himself a cup. He was short- definitely no more than four-foot-ten- with a tremendously large green top-hat with a dingy lime-yellow band. A carefully written script was placed in the band: a faded piece of paper reading In This Style, 10/6.
He had tufts of pale, scraggly blond hair, pluming outward from underneath the hat. His nose was enormous and potato-like, his blue eyes wrinkled and small, though friendly. He had an overbite, with teeth spilling forth unabashedly; due to this, his grin was quite striking.
The collar of his coat and an over-large striped bow-tie hid much of his face from view, making his face appear crowded or squashed with detail. His height did that, too; he seemed like someone had left him under a hydraulic press for just a little too long.
He had striped slacks and shined shoes, and an overlarge coat that teetered between acceptable and slightly shabby. His gloves were white and calfskin, with square fingers that were surprisingly deft.
Crane made a slight mewling noise, teetering towards him urgently. The man seemed receptive and sympathetic.
“Sit!” He ordered, with velvet firmness. “Draw a chair, have some tea.”
Crane collapsed in the chair beside the man, breath labored.
“Rock-a-bye baby,” It groaned. “In the treetops. When the wind blows, the cradle will rock. When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall. Down comes baby , cradle and all.”
The man, who’d begun pouring tea, hesitated a moment.
“Did you hurt yourself?” He guessed.
“Yesss,” Crane said, through its teeth.
“All of those songs are about falling—?”
“ Yesss.”
“Oh, dear. Not badly, I hope?”
A miserable groan.
“Let me see,” the man coaxed, pushing a steaming cup of tea towards Crane. Nailed fingers delicately took the tea, and there was a slurp as it drank through the narrow mouth-slit in the burlap. The tea was overly sugared and hot, tasting of lemon, honey, and malt. It had been drugged.
Crane knew. It drank, regardless. The tea was always drugged and it helped Crane sleep.
Crane extended a slender leg out to the man, at his gentle instruction. Its boots were dull and scratched, treads spattered with mud and grime. The man pulled it off, smearing dirt on his lovely white gloves, and ignored Crane’s sound of pain.
“What happened?” He examined Crane’s calf. Its ankle was red, beginning to swell and purple.
“Polly, put the kettle on—” Crane murmured, putting the rim of the teacup to its mouth. It wanted to sleep now that it was safe.
“Oh, none of that, now. No nursery stories, you hear me?” The man stuck his finger in Crane’s face, with mock-authority, like a seven-year-old trying to order around a five-year-old.
“Batman,” Crane rumbled, reluctantly. “Tripped. Hurts.”
“You didn’t lead him here, did you? ‘ The table was a large one, but the three were all crowded together at one corner of it: ‘No room! No room!’ they cried out when they saw Alice coming. ’”
“Georgie Porgie, pudding and pie,” Crane explained, wearily. “Kissed the girls and made them cry. When the boys came out to play, Georgie Porgie ran away.”
“I don’t follow,” The man said. He gingerly set Crane’s leg down, and it winced when its toes touched the cold bare floor.
“Mmmm joker,” Crane elaborated.
“Joker interrupted you and Batman?” The man asked. “How fortunate. You’ve looked for tracking devices?”
Crane reached a slender hand into its pocket, and withdrew a crushed piece of steel and wiring. It was broken into unusable splinters. Crane grinned.
“Brilliant as always, Crane,” The man said, affectionately. “Do you mind if I borrow that? The Batman’s technology has a particularly interesting architecture to it.”
Crane deposited it into his hand; the man tipped his hat with a grateful grin, and headed over to the table piled with spare technology and hats. He left the tiny device on the table, then went back to Crane.
“We’ll need to ice that.” The man said, indicating its swelling ankle.
Crane made an unenthusiastic grunt. “The north wind doth blow, and we will have snow, and what will the poor robin do then?”
“Don’t whine. It’ll help,” the man chided.
“I am not a child,” Crane growled, idly.
“Then don’t act like a brat,” the man said. “You’re nearly as impatient and whiny as that troublemaker Alice.”
Crane’s expression flickered, angry, then dulled. It drank from its teacup again.
“I’ll go get some ice,” the man volunteered, in a kinder tone. “I’ll be back soon. Please help yourself to some butter and bread or a tart while I’m gone; I always thought you were too thin!”
“Thank-you, Hatter,” Crane rocked in its chair, slightly, and reached for a silver serving tray laden with baked goods. It tasted, carefully, the fluffy lightness of the bread; and was pleased by the flavor. Savory rather than sweet, still dusted with flour. Crane drank the last of the tea, lapping at the dregs for the last traces of honey and the silt-like powder of whatever the Hatter had put in it.
Hatter disappeared and Crane was left alone, nursing its hurting ankle and quietly gnawing on cold butter and bread.
It wanted the pain to go away, and it wanted to rest; it had been a long while since it had last slept, and it was desperately tired, but it had not been able to sleep regularly and soundly since it was a very, very small child. That was why it did not mind Hatter’s drugging.
It was all but asleep when Hatter returned with an ice-pack. Its eyes were closed and its chest shallowly rose and fell; it was sprawled across the chair it sat in, its feet wide, limbs splayed, and its head lolled, chin snug against its chest.
Its slitted eyes widened, and it made a distressed sound when Hatter gingerly lowered the ice pack to its leg.
“Don’t thrash, dear,” Hatter told it, sternly. It listened, screwing up its eyes tightly and gritting its teeth. It took a moment, but it relaxed, gradually, back into its chair. “There. Isn’t it better?”
“Here we go round the mulberry bush,” Crane mumbled, drowsily. “The mulberry bush, the mulberry bush. Here we go round the mulberry bush, on a cold and frosty morning.”
“I’ll take that as a thank-you,” Hatter said. He circled around Crane and sat down in his chair, pouring himself a cup of tea that was now only lukewarm. He squeezed in some honey, sadly watching it congeal at the bottom. He stirred, ponderously.
“I’ve been having a positively frabjous time with you, Crane,” Hatter tapped the rim of the cup with his spoon, shaking excess droplets from it. “You have been a most excellent guest at the tea-party. Why, I think—”
A sleepy exhale interrupted Hatter’s speech. Crane’s eyelids drooped, and its head, recently uprighted, slowly slumped forward.
“Tut-tut. Just like the Dormouse, always sleeping at the table,” Hatter smiled, impish and good-natured. “Hopefully you’ll be good as new in a few weeks, dear. We still have plans for this mimsy city, after all.”