Special Thanks to my beta on A03 - Lusey!
"He's late.. ."
"Give him time."
"No - he's had enough."
"Patience, my Prince." Strickler spoke back, his voice matched only by the silk and tapestries hanging on the walls, "Shall I remind you who's in charge of organizing these orders as of late?"
Bular made a small puff of air, like a dog about to bark.
"He is an incompetent fool."
"Perhaps."
"Tell me - how a man as himself made it to his position?"
"Because, my Prince," Strickler stated, a look behind his eyes, "You ate the last one."
That was enough to send him off and away from the opening of the window over the downtown of Arcadia, knocking aside some tarp as he huffed again, forming the noise into a bark of orders towards the milling changelings, sending them into a flurry like startled pigeons.
Strickler rolled his eyes once he was out of range, staring into the semi-darkness of the museum courtyard outside before turning back at the task before him, stepping away from the opening. Lifting the top and hay from a nearby crate, he stared at the small chunks of rock, ancient, crumbling, but filled to the brim with humming, living magic. He lifted up a small chunk from the box, and watched as it left his hands delicately - hovering over to the column building up, slowly and steadily.
He watched the dozen or so changelings mimicking his movements, digging into crates, lifting up the small, inconspicuous pieces, building, restoring.
Strickler looked briefly over his shoulder, brow furrowing, face like flint.
Where was he, anyways?
Otto was late - terribly late. He knew - he knew he was.
But knowing did not change the fact, so he ran instead.
He hadn't been bothered to move faster than a stroll in the past hundred or so years, so moving at such high speeds left him breathless, struggling, and more than once leaning on a lamppost to catch his breath.
When he came to the steps of Arcadia's Museum of Art and Architecture, he took them two at a time, huffing, puffing, the whole razzmatazz. Otto slowed when he was finally inside the oversized wooden double doors. Staring around, Otto tried to adjust his sight to the darkness, before shutting the door behind him, quiet. He kept the to shadows, keeping his mouth closed, even if he wanted to pant aloud and mouth open like some tired, aging mutt.
Immediately, there was a ruckus, something being dropped, clanging against the floor and loud enough for Otto to grab for his automatic. In the intake of breath, he drew it out, clicked the safety off, and aimed to kill whatever security guard had caught him in the act of breaking and entering.
The two dark masks of a pair of changelings stared up from behind the tall, broken naked statue, caught in the act of picking up spilled hay and stone yellow eyes blinking. There was a moment where they were caught in the gaze of the other before they stood rigid, at attention. They immediately bowed in respect, as tradition commanded.
"M-Mr. Scarbaach!"
"Silence! Not so loud!" He spat. "And stand straight - you disgust me."
"Sorry…" they apologized in sync, lowering their gaze, but straightening as instructed.
Otto gave a brief roll of his eyes, before tucking the gun back in his long coat, harshening his gaze.
"Is he here?"
"Who?" One peeped.
"You know who."
"Oh! Y-Yes! He is, Grand Commandant." The other answered, hands folded together.
Otto couldn't hide the sideways glance towards the large columns and rays of blue moonlight, matched only by the blue sparkling of magic of the stones fastening together - at least, some of them, he heard hammers and stone against stone in the near distance as well.
Manual labor, ugh.
"Alright." He sighed, pointing them and their recovered box in the direction of the bridge. "Get back to work and out of sight you two. And be careful with those stones, for fucks' sake."
They nodded and scurried off, a bit too fast for his taste, but, when he turned back at something moving close over his shoulder, he realized why, and felt his back bend in integrated respect.
" Mein Prinz …" He greeted the troll, low, bowing a few times over to make up for his lack of acknowledgment. "It is a pleasant sur -."
"You're late."
Otto paused, keeping his head down, eyes boring holes into the floor, a dust bunny by his small toe.
"I -."
"Did I warn you about being late?"
"Y-You did, sir. You -."
"Quiet, you mewling whelp."
Otto, ever the obedient servant, did as he was told, sealing his lips, eyes searching the floor a moment more before the massive bulk of Bular turned to leave, the small, stocky polymorph lifting his head to follow close behind.
They traveled through the small hallway of the aging building, leading towards the tarp and columns of the covered portion of the displays. Otto took off his small hat, and ducked under the tape and inside, the energy shifted with the presence of magic hanging heavily in the air. He took a moment to look around at the bustling changelings, the closest ones bowing as the Otto returned the repects, albeit stiff and sore.
He watched and listened to the sound of progress, crackling, blue magic lifting the heavier chunks out of the scattered boxes and containers and into the air, before he realized the stare on the side of his head, and he snapped back from the momentary distraction, at attention.
"Well…?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Do you have it?" Bular growled, holding out his curved claws expectantly, "I trust you do - given all the time you've wasted."
Otto was quite a moment or two, eyes blinking.
"I… don't , sir…"
Bular started, ember eyes igniting as they bore into his own.
"What?"
"I don't, sir." He replied, honest, "Human shipments can be finicky, such delays can be expected when traveling such long -."
There was an exploding pain in his cheek, the polymorph falling backwards against a crate, hands scrambling to catch himself against it but ending up sliding down, backside hitting the ground. He gripped his bright pink face, clutching his stinging cheek, where a claw had gone to backhand him. The side from the recent scuffle with Draal caught the edge of the crate as he had fallen, and it took all his willpower not to scream out in those moments of being slumped, breath hissing through gritted teeth.
"You... You…"
"Hit you?" The royal troll asked, low, breathy, "It's the least you deserve for your incompetence, cockroach." There was an ugly smile, drool dripping from a hungry maw, "I'd suggest you fetch that Eyestone soon, Grand Commandant - lest I'd be picking your flesh from my teeth with your bones."
Otto couldn't help an instinctive glare but brought it back to only half of its ferocity at the blurry sight and sound of snarling, rotting teeth. Bular turned away to bark orders and the momentarily frozen changelings broke their gazes away from a fallen Otto, scurrying out of the troll's reach unless they wanted to be smacked themselves.
After catching his breath and fully realizing his impaired sight, Otto grabbed hold of the nearby crate and stood to try to find his fallen lenses, but, realized his mistake too late when he felt something give way under his foot, the look of recognition and horror crossing his face.
He dipped down to try to save the poor, crushed lenses, fumbling, quite blindly on the edges, without them.
There were a few moments of quiet desperation, the thought of how he was going to get home and function in his day to day life running through his skull before his lowered nose touched the polished wingtip shoes with a matching blonde suit, the owner staring down, but offering a blurry, five digited hand.
"Need some assistance there, Napoleon?"
The walk back home at the path of creeping sun of dawn was quiet, albeit fumbling and awkward and full of tripping for both parties involved.
"Step to the left a bit - there's dog shit in the road."
Otto Scarbaach made the most disgusted face he could manage, curling a lip as he narrowly missed the mysterious brown blob on the center of the cracked concrete, stinking up half the block as soon as he passed it. Birds had begun to sing, the dawn gracing the back of their heels now, pinpoints of the rising sun.
"Nevermind - is it fixed yet?"
"No," Strickler retorted, in a tired sigh, as if talking to a persistent toddler, "It's not yet. Again. Give me a moment when we get inside. Just relax - you're fine."
The hand that had been looped through his arm traveled to the small of his back, rubbing gently in a circle before settling on his shoulder, squeezing to lead him along. The touch, foreign, did not ease him, but he didn't complain for the time being, opting to close his eyes as they walked, seeing them useless without his precious, old as time, glasses.
The rest of the night had been quite unproductive on Otto's end, and, when Strickler offered coffee and breakfast at his place, (either out of friendship or pity Otto didn't know), he'd been more than happy to take it up. He'd felt quite useless for the past several hours and had warranted enough embarrassment on himself, bumping and fumbling through straw boxes as best he could, holding the lenses close with the other, like some small child clutching a broken toy. Bular did not bother him again, stalking out halfway through to fetch himself something to settle as for a meal, and for that he was thankful. Another backhand and the polymorph was sure his jaw would've shattered like glass.
A few twists and turns lead them through Arcadia's early morning streets, before there was a sharp poke on Otto's arm, the polymorph opening his eyes to see the outline of a trio of steps, leading to a wooden door - Strickler's small, squat, 50s style home.
He followed, carefully stepping up, before they were in, the door locked three times over as Strickler lead the polymorph rest of the way inside.
Walter Strickler's home was a warm shade of earth, coffee, and sand. The tones of the shelves, rugs, and coffee tables were warm, shapeless blobs, homey and pleasant as fresh wildflower honey on toast.
After a few steps, Otto settled on the tan blob he found out to be an armchair, shifting uncomfortably as the tall form of Strickler hovered nearby before, moving right out of his clearer vision, towards what he assumed for the moment was a television set.
Otto tapped his fingers against the armrest impatiently, slumping, eyes squinting and straining.
"Well? Wh -?"
"Jesus Christ, Otto." Strickler retorted, exasperated, "Give me just a moment. I'll fix them, don't worry."
"Ah - apologizes. You know how I'm like without my -."
"Your glasses, I know ." The nestmate cut him off again, swaying a bit around the small room before muttering something under his breath and fluttering out of the living room and completely out of sight into the adjoining kitchen. The polymorph followed the familiar shape through the kitchen nook with his small eyes, settling back against the cushions.
"Caesar?"
"Hm?"
"Why does he hate me so?" He asked, quiet, as if they weren't alone in the very beige home.
"You're soft." A voice filtered from the back corner of the kitchen, before coming back in front of him, a small grey round object in one hand, the cracked glasses in the other.
Otto felt his face flush at the sound of duct tape being pulled from the roll.
"I'm not soft."
"You're a sponge."
"Hey."
"A stress ball."
"Hey."
"It's true." Strickler grinned, pursing his lip as he pat down the small rolls on his frame.
Otto looked unnerved, pouting a lip, rolling his eyes.
"If you are going insult me -." He pointed to the kitchen with a stubby, short finger, "at least make me coffee for the show."
"Coffee for the show later." Strickler waved off, a smile in his voice. There was a comfortable quietness as he worked, Otto realizing his nestmate had put on a record when they passed the small table coming in, some jazz from the 20s, gentle flute and trumpet of a hidden speakeasy and he listened, soothed.
"You alright, Napoleon?" The familiar voice of Strickler lifted from the coffee table he was sitting on after a handful of minutes, another stretch and cut of the tape interrupting the song.
"Quite."
"You weren't the other night."
Otto felt his face blanch. He'd nearly forgot and felt his hand settle absently over his pocket, gripping the cloth.
"I wasn't, I will confess. But I am now."
"Are you sure?" The voice pressed even further, an eyebrow-raising somewhere in the sentence.
"Quite." Otto replied, curt, final.
There was a bit of silence before a stifled laugh lifted from the man.
"You know you say that a lot? 'Quite' ." He chuckled, imitating the accent.
"Shut up." Otto hissed, albeit, with not as much venom as he had hoped, only earning another bout of snorting laughter from the changeling.
The record still spun, and, when the songs switched to the next, there was a pleased noise, and Otto's eyes opened to the brownish, human shaped blob in front of him.
" Voila!" Walter Strickler grinned, holding out the lenses for Otto to take, before taking Otto's flailing hand and pressing them into an open palm, seeing how he missed them the first few tries.
Otto, sighing, pressed them onto his face, straightening them as best he could, the frames held together by fate, sweat, and ludicrous amounts of duct-tape.
"Well?"
"They're scheisse …"
The expression on Strickler's face changed, as clear as day.
"I could snap them in half over my knee and put them out of their misery."'
Otto stood, eyes widening, retreating to the kitchen, to make himself that promised mug - faster than he had in the last hundred years.
" Nein . I stand corrected - they're wunderbar ."