Tangled In Strings

Chapter 2: Shadows That Don't Belong

Subcon didn’t sleep.

Even after Moonjumper faded back into the astral haze, Snatcher remained perched on the ruined stage, staring at where he’d sat just hours before. His fingers still tingled faintly from the touch—cool, tethered with strings—and something unfamiliar curled deep in his chest.

Hope.

He hated it.

Hope was dangerous. Hope got you killed.

He’d sworn off hope centuries ago, around the same time he lost his name and his soul.

But Moonjumper’s voice lingered in his head like a lullaby laced with poison:

“I thought… maybe you were tired, too.”

Snatcher closed his eyes—and felt it.

A ripple.

Wrongness.

Something was in Subcon Forest. Something that didn’t belong to him, didn’t obey him. And that was not supposed to be possible.

He stood, shadows tightening around his form. His grin returned, but thinner, strained.

"Looks like we’ve got an uninvited guest..."

---

Elsewhere — The Rift

Moonjumper awoke in his half-existence between realms, suspended like a marionette against a sky of stars that didn’t shine. The Horizon Realm was quieter than Subcon—but not peaceful. Never peaceful.

His body—what was left of it—tensed.

He felt it too.

A pull.

A tear.

Something had crawled through between dimensions.

And it wasn’t him.

Moonjumper floated down to the edge of his dominion, cursed shackles rattling faintly as he scanned the void.

“No...”

Where there was once nothing, a gash now pulsed in the air—a tear dripping black ichor, humming with static. Red strings—not his—twitched from within like veins.

Then—

A voice. Soft. Ancient. Wrong.

“Two broken kings, tethered by guilt... how quaint.”

Moonjumper stepped back instinctively.

He knew that voice.

He had buried that voice.

“You're supposed to be dead,” Moonjumper said quietly.

“So are you,” the voice whispered back.

The shadows parted.

And from the rift stepped a figure neither man nor ghost, wearing a cracked white mask and a crown of bone—The Marquess, the ancient puppetmaster of forgotten realms.

A creature who fed on cursed bonds.

A creature who once made Moonjumper.

---

Back in Subcon Forest...

Snatcher arrived at the Glade of Shadows to find the trees weeping—thick, tar-like sap oozing from bark like tears. His strings reached out instinctively, probing for anything foreign.

They met resistance.

Snatcher’s form flickered.

“Ohhh, you’re gonna regret that,” he growled, baring sharp teeth. “Whatever you are.”

Then the air twisted, and the Marquess stepped out of the shadows, dragging his own strings—red and rotten.

“You’re already tethered to so many regrets,” he purred. “What’s one more?”

Snatcher’s claws curled into fists. “I don’t know who you think you are, but this is my forest, creep.”

“And yet... you’re so weak when he’s not around.”

The implication stung more than it should have.

Before Snatcher could respond, the rift behind the Marquess widened—and tendrils of puppet string lashed out, stabbing into the trees and corrupting them, spreading like a disease.

“I feed on forgotten bonds,” the Marquess whispered. “And you two have such delicious history.”

Then—

Moonjumper descended like a falling star, cloak flaring with pinpricks of starlight, his voice cold as winter.

“You will not touch him.”

Snatcher blinked. “...Wow. You do care.”

Moonjumper didn’t look at him. He stared only at the Marquess.

“Leave now.”

“Or what?” the Marquess hissed.

Moonjumper’s strings flared crimson, crossing with Snatcher’s in a web of pure defiance.

“Or I cut every string you ever wove.”

And for a moment—for the first time in centuries—Snatcher and Moonjumper stood together, side by side.

Not as enemies.

Not as rivals.

But as something new.

Something fragile.

Something worth protecting.

---

Later…

The Marquess had retreated—for now.

Snatcher floated in silence beside Moonjumper, who sat on a jagged stone near the cursed glade, still trembling slightly.

> “You okay, Moonpie?” Snatcher asked, trying to sound casual. “You glitched harder than Hat Kid on a sugar rush.”

Moonjumper didn’t respond.

Snatcher's grin faltered.

“He... made you, didn’t he?”

Moonjumper nodded once. Barely.

“I escaped him. But I never killed him. I thought he withered without power. I was wrong.”

Snatcher was quiet a moment. Then—softly, uncharacteristically sincere:

“If he comes back for you... he’s gotta come through me first.”

Moonjumper turned his head, watching him carefully. “Why would you do that?”

Snatcher shrugged.

“Because maybe I’m tired, too.”

A moment of silence passed.

Moonjumper reached out again—slow, hesitant—and this time, Snatcher didn’t pull away. Their fingers brushed. Their strings tangled.

Just a little.