Circus Baby straightened, still holding the box.
Her painted on smile seemed to brighten as she stirred with one stubby hand complete with ice cream nozzle fingers the entrails of the bear where it lay, thorax open, on the charging table among the others in the half-light of Maintenance.
Her fingers sifted thoughtfully through the now-dried contents: a jawbone missing teeth, a rag, a boot, a loose tuft of hair there, snapped femurs there, skin so much torn paper.
Sooooooooo, her dancing bear had once more gotten away, taking all the new toys with him.
How very, very inconsiderate of him, when he was supposed to share.
A rattle of finger bones, some of them snapped in two, missing teeth, broken ribs, the smell of old death, all anchors for someone who dared defy her, who wouldn't play the game and took the others to hide with him into the maze SHE had built for her own entertainment.
Well, let him win this round, what was left of him.
In the end, Baby always won, and she had what would let her win in her pocket – if he could steal her favorite toy, she had stolen his memory, his sanity.
And in the end, Circus Baby would win.
Because Baby always got what Baby wanted.
And the man with white hair would help her get it.