Amygdala, p.16
AMYGDALA, page 16
“Interesting, but not poor, I hope,” said Gatsby.
“If she opens her mouth, it’s for her tongue, you understand? She isn’t here to make commentary.”
“Of course, my lovely.”
Harlow squared into him. “Far from it, I think you’ll find.”
He answered with a tip of his hat.
The Doll turned from the pair, moving swiftly to the massive theatre doors. “Follow.”
5. The Meeting
Yeshua had many accommodations scattered across the city, though none were as homely as the upper halls of the Empire, far above the main stage. His chambers were located at the end of a winding corridor, bedecked with his numerous musical inventions. Above the doorway was a large mingling of folded flesh, attractive bodies with minds destroyed long ago. Their shameful contortions were secured and suspended in tight black rope that whined and creaked as they hung. This display was a ‘bending net’, one of many ventures into the experimental world of private activity. The tight, binding art was mostly enjoyed by clients and Dollies, but for Yeshua, it was a presentation of trophies.
Beyond the door was a chamber with soft red rugs, a great round window facing south, and a ceiling so tall it bled deep into the dark. Though the concept of a ceiling was relative to one’s orientation, there was ‘the Rule of Intended Orientation’ which insisted upon dominant flooring. Ceilings and walls were not typically used for accommodation or storage, but regardless, they could be used creatively.
Upon Yeshua’s ceiling, he chose to continue his display of entwined bodies, thousands now, all contorted together in a showcase of eternal defeat and mockery. Like flies they hung and swayed, held in his brutal, exposing web.
Yeshua drank deep from his crystal glass, happy to stroll among his collection once again. Peppered upon the floor were larger bodies, kneeling and bent to form an array of furniture, though there was also a mix of soft couches and glass tables.
Three knocks came to the large wooden door. “Gatsby for you!” said Harlow from beyond it.
“Enter!” Yeshua called back, plucking a fresh bottle of liquid laughter from the mantel of a roaring fireplace, carved into the north wall. He unscrewed the top as Harlow led the guests inside. His yellow eyes turned first to Harlow, then Mystique. “She’s pretty.”
Gatsby lifted the Dollie’s chin with his thumb. “Found her on Beetle Street. Knew you wouldn’t mind.”
“You’re here to talk business.” Yeshua nodded to Harlow who pulled Mystique forward by the elbow and forced her to kneel. “You got a name?” he said to her.
“Mystique…” the Dollie answered, gazing up at him.
“Hmm… Good taste, Gatsby,” said Yeshua. “But you can play with her later.” He snapped his fingers.
Harlow formed her arm to a thin black blade and stepped up behind Mystique. After grabbing a handful of hair, she slid the blade across the throat and pulled the head free. The beheaded Dollie slumped forward, chest against her knees, rear upon her ankles. A headless worshipper fallen before a god. This position was among the most popular of the Dollhouse bows: the beggars bow. Sister to the backward bow, the beggars bow saw a kneeling body slumped forward instead of backward. The result was a position designed to accentuate the backside. With the legs together, clients might enjoy a tightly packed body, rump resting upon the heels. With legs apart, the body becomes splayed like a dead frog. Alternatively, the rear could be raised high in the air for all to bear witness. A most humbling position.
Harlow carried the head from the chamber and closed the doors behind her. Yeshua poured a drink for his guest. “Take a seat.”
“Certainly,” said Gatsby.
Gatsby was an eye-catcher, indeed. He stood at eight feet, boasting six dexterous arms with many-fingered hands sheathed in leather gloves. His body was skinny and light. Upon his shoulders balanced a bulbous head, set afire with blazing ginger hair. He donned a buttery broad-brimmed hat to match his jacket. His shirt was navy blue, his trousers were a simple white, and his feet were large and clawed. Nestled in his breast pocket – and upon his hat – were various dried flowers, vibrant and sweet. His white face was a remarkable sight; from ear to ear there stretched a wide mouth housing seventy-two flat and yellow teeth, sprouting from bright red gums. His milky eyes were nestled within two smaller mouths below his brow.
Gatsby swivelled and sat prettily upon the Dollie’s back. He crossed a long leg over the other and blinked with a click of his jaws. “I’m afraid I couldn’t resist, ol’ mucker. Your Dollies are impressive…”
“And those that aren’t still have their uses.” Yeshua moved to a shelf that bore a vast collection of polished skulls. He plucked one from the display and filled it with alcohol, pouring the drink into the foramen magnum. The grand entertainer loomed above Gatsby and coiled a tail around the wrist of Mystique, placing the skull into her hand, keeping the bottle for himself. The Dollie’s hand instinctively wrapped around the cranium, gripping it dutifully. “Good girl.”
“Such talent!” said Gatsby.
Yeshua smiled and sat himself upon a rich leather chair opposite his guest, his feline face lit by the glow of crackling fire. “It’s all down to the neural network. The headless are sinew and nerve, electrical impulses breakin’ down energies. But that’s what makes my Dollies so special. I don’t just train their minds… I train their chemistry. Submission is in their flesh, in their bones.”
Gatsby plucked the goblet from the Dollie’s dormant grasp and lifted it. “I’ll drink to that.” He delayed a little on the first sip, but soon overcame the morbid skull. After a third mouthful, he gave the goblet back to Mystique’s waiting hand.
“Any trouble on the way in?” said Yeshua.
“Harlow was very pleasant.”
“You don’t gotta lie.”
“She’s a brute!”
Yeshua chuckled and crossed his legs. “Ha! She’s somethin’ alright…”
“Available?”
“Oh no… She’s my prize.”
Gatsby leaned in. “Your only prize? Tell me, what news from the political world?”
Yeshua cleared his throat and drank from the bottle, gazing into the flicking flames. “It happened: Nathanial opened Locket’s proposal for consideration.”
“And?”
“Can’t proceed without a unanimous vote, and Methusa won’t sign.”
“Why not?!”
“You mean you don’t know?” said Yeshua, glaring at Gatsby. “I’ve turned a blind eye to your scheming long enough – so you better fill me in. Right now.”
“I don’t know what to say. I don’t deal with Methusa, not directly.” Gatsby pulled a black book from his pocket and splayed it upon his lap. The left pages held sketched faces, and to the right were their names and details. “I have you in here, I have Greta, Bazzil, Teazzer, I have contacts across the city… but no Methusa. If you want to know what is happening above your head, don’t turn to the lower rung of the ladder, my friend. I have nothing for you.”
Yeshua took another swig from the bottle and pointed to the book. “Hand it over.”
“You needn’t concern yourself. It’s in Gatsby’s name, a legal trader. The book is harmless in my pocket.”
“Except yours is the pocket of Fontaine. I want it destroyed when this is over.”
“In good time. But for now, I have an operation to manage.”
Yeshua turned his head up to the ceiling. “If Methusa wants to drag this out, she can do it on her time. I’m out. It stops.”
“I can’t do that. Most of my contacts are in the Kasino.”
“Then you better tell ’em. Where’s Greta?”
“Trailing a lead.”
Yeshua raised a brow. “The Needlemire fire…”
“One of my distributors, Goldune, went missing shortly after.”
“Yolsh?”
“They would have made a statement by now. But they’ll investigate.”
“A third party then. Who?”
“Not sure, but Greta will find them.”
Yeshua arose from his chair. “Put everythin’ on hold until I’ve spoken to Methusa.”
“But what is it she wants?” said Gatsby.
“Perhaps we should ask her. Because now I’m not so sure. Helgan is making arrangements as we speak.” He turned. “Don’t think of me as an idiot. The mire, what is it?”
“I can’t say. My job is distribution. That’s all. It’s Greta who reports to Methusa, and she tells me very little.”
“Am I to assume that mire caused the blaze?”
“I’m not certain. There are still some kinks in the chemistry, or so I’m told. But it’s safe to drink.” Gatsby reached into his breast pocket and pulled a small phial loose. “See for yourself.”
Yeshua snatched it and drank it empty. A few moments of silence followed, then he massaged his jaw. “Makes my teeth ache.”
“I can’t speak to its utility. Greta seems to want data, above all else.”
“Which means Methusa wants data. What if it’s a weapon? Have we thought of that? What if Methusa’s insane? What exactly are we caught up in?”
“Lower rung, ol’ chap. Don’t ask me. All I can tell you is we haven’t moved much at all. The shadow looms larger than the product itself. The fear of Fontaine.”
“But who buys it?”
Gatsby shrugged. “It’s random.”
“No more. Got that? You answer to me.”
“I deal with Greta, too. And Greta is my link to Methusa.”
“And which of us do you really need?”
Gatsby stood. “Both, it would seem. Still… I’ll wait for Methusa to sign. That was the deal, after all.”
Yeshua nodded. “Good. Where will you go in the meantime?”
“The fire in Vileborne has left a pit of inactivity in the town. Some claim to have seen bright and wild light. If my lot were involved, I need to keep the Yolsh off the trail. I’ll see what I can pull together, keep my eye on the place, make a bit of profit while our deal sleeps.” He straightened his jacket. “And once our deal is put to rest for good, I expect what is owed.”
“Once Helgan stands as Voice of Trade, I wager she’ll cut you out a nice piece of it. Unless Roger Penny goes for the job.”
The atmosphere became cold, and Gatsby’s face turned a shade whiter. “But you’ll make sure that doesn’t happen.” His voice seethed. “I’ll be in touch.”
“What about your Dollie?”
“Next time. Just remember I’ve paid.”
“Gatsby,” said Yeshua, looming high above him. “Tread lightly.”
“I always do.” And with a tip of his yellow hat, Gatsby took his leave.
Alone, Yeshua paced, thinking to himself, forming words with his lips.
“My Doll?” said Harlow from outside. The doors softly opened, and she entered with a fresh bundle of Inker papers clasped in one hand, Mystique’s slavering head in the other. “Articles from Starklook. Fresh from the presses.”
Yeshua sat himself upon a large emerald sofa beside the extravagant window overlooking the Circus. “Come in, sweet thing.”
Harlow marched up to Mystique’s kneeling body, dropped the head to the floor, and narrowed her eyes. With sneering expression, she nudged the headless form with her foot, turning it belly up.
“A looker, ain’t she?” Yeshua said, beaming colour across the room with a sly grin.
“I’ve seen better.”
“Come now… don’t be jealous.”
“What do I have to be jealous of? I have you…” Harlow kicked the Dollie’s arm, scoffing as the hand slapped against the chest. “This one is a bauble.” She stepped proudly over the limp decoration, her long ears tickling the backs of her knees. With gentle care, she climbed up onto Yeshua’s lap and handed the papers over. “How was court?”
“Locket’s trade proposal is under review, and as soon as Methusa signs, we’ll give ‘Gatsby’ the chop, tie off the loose ends, and everybody will come out clean.”
“Except Fontaine won’t lie down and die so easy; he’s got you in that little black book.”
“I’m sure – with all my resources – I can overcome a spot of blackmail.”
“You certainly can. And if not, I’ll kill the grinning fool myself.” She licked her large incisors and snuggled into his warm chest, caressing his ribs.
He purred at her soft touch. “Locket’s been chasin’ this reform since the Trade Revolution; I’m sure she appreciates the subtle opportunity mire provides.”
“If she finds out…”
“It was Methusa’s idea, wa la wa, she can take the fall if it comes to it. Mire is just the leverage we need to subvert Nathanial and get this done. He’ll be next to go, mark me on that.”
Harlow smiled as his vibrations rolled through her. “And Methusa?”
“We’ll see.” Yeshua unfolded the fresh paper and scanned his eyes over the cover, reviewing the latest. “Starklook better have somethin’ good this time.”
The title of the article read: ‘Polly’s Tab Infiltrated’, with a sketch of Polly’s desecrated body below. Yeshua’s mouth hung open, concern growing with every word.
6. The Starklook Article – ‘Polly’s Tab Infiltrated’
The Underbirth has been rocked of late by a myriad of peripheral concerns. However, beyond invisible speculation, it was impossible to overlook the Yolshen brigade marching through the doors of Polly’s Tab of Lovart Town.
Polly, whose career as a Toymaker dated back to 1411, ended her legacy in a backward bow, decapitated, her dollfaced head bearing the scar of a dead mind. Despite sightings of other parties, Wexle, Voice of the Yolsh, insists the operation was thoroughly legal. The other participant in the investigation was a Blackhall, though the identity has not been confirmed. The report received by Starklook outlined the necessity for this agent, while also bringing those once peripheral concerns to the forefront.
Polly’s Tab was found to have a full stock of mire, a chemical substance which seems to be of great importance to certain groups, despite its scarcity at street level. The Yolsh do not yet know why this substance is being stored, but the sudden prevalence of it calls into question the identity of Fontaine and those with whom he deals. Whether an anomaly, or the beginning of a troubling trend, the subject of mire is hot on the city’s lips.
– Javier, Inker of Starklook Inkhouse
Pictured below: Polly’s body at the scene.
7. Casting Call
Yeshua’s soft rhythm dropped to a rumble as he leaned forward, face twisting. He arose from his comfort, leaving Harlow alone by the glowing window.
“What’s the matter?” said Harlow, cocking her head as he paced back and forth, lost in rumination. “Yeshua?”
He tapped the paper to his wrist. “I’ve just read about a stash of mire hidden away in a Hammerlow Toyshop, about a Blackhall investigator… A ‘troubling trend’ as the paper calls it.”
Harlow scratched her chin. “Odd. Wexle wouldn’t disclose her practices prematurely to the press, not while Fontaine still has his head.”
“Then what did I just read?”
Harlow stretched across the sofa like a cat. “Faulty reporting, speculation, any number of things.”
“They say they got a report… Could be a leak,” said Yeshua, stroking his beard.
“Who would be bold enough to cross Wexle like that?”
“Somebody with assurances.” He shook his head and scrunched his brow. “Starklook wasn’t in court, so how did they get this information so fast? They might be bought.”
Harlow jumped to her feet. “If some fool wants to make an enemy of Wexle, that’s their problem.”
“If Wexle’s been usin’ Blackhalls, she didn’t tell me, nor the court. She’ll have wanted to keep it quiet, take Fontaine by surprise… So… whoever leaked this information might know more. Think it through; if this stuff about the Blackhall is true, how did it get out? And what else do they know? This could become our problem real fast, sweetie.”
Harlow stepped up, arms behind her back, head bowed. “Could I set your mind at ease?”
Yeshua, captured by her beauty, took a moment to peruse. “You still remember how to play Yolsh?”
“It’s not something one forgets.”
He passed the paper down to her. “I want you to cross the lake to Ol’ Frankby, find this writer, ‘Javier’, and squeeze him. Either Starklook lied, or somebody leaked, and I wanna know which. I wanna know who!”
Harlow pinned the paper beneath her arm. “Yes, my Doll.” She kicked the humbled body of Mystique. “Shall I take this away?”
“Leave it.”
Nodding. “I’ll set out immediately.”
“Good girl.” He gave Harlow a departing kiss to the forehead. “Remember what I taught you; everybody has a fantasy… fulfil it and they’re yours. Play the role and play it well.”
With his prized pupil dismissed, the mighty ginger beast set his yellow eyes back upon the waiting vessel of Mystique. Head tilted, he nudged the hand from the chest, revealing the naked torso. The body reacted with a shiver to his touch, settling as his hands wandered across the smooth flesh. The olden coin fastened to her belt caught his eye with a silver wink, and with a curious purr, Yeshua pulled it loose. “Wa la wa…” he said.
He clutched the dollfaced head and brought it to meet the body, stump-to-stump. Both ends opened and fused together in a mingling of writhing flesh. The body convulsed and the face malfunctioned as consciousness burst into expression. Mystique fell to her hands and knees before Yeshua, coughing.
“Where do you work?” he asked.
Mystique looked up in awe of him. “Beetle Street…” she wheezed.
“Stand up.” He circled the Dollie, eyes to her body, then her dress. “If you’re goin’ bare chested, wear Lockettian, not Sombrarian.”
Her cheeks flushed. “Yes, my Doll.”
He stopped before her. “How many instruments d’you play?”
“Eleven.”
