Tinkerbell was feeling woozy and lightheaded again. She stood behind Clockwork and Lionheart, wobbling around on girly legs. She giggled. "Being a fairy is fun." Her wings suddenly started flapping rapidly.
"We're losing her again." The large toy said, but he kept looking over the magic talismans.
“I’ll take care of it, honey.” Clockwork said, turning around to the pixie, surprised that the toy had shrunk almost a foot in the past minutes. She was propped on her tippy toes, and glitter fell from her body as she moved. The pixie watched her body, fascinated by its plastic form. The tin doll bent down and put her hands between her knees. “Tinkerbell, dear, what’s the matter?”
“I’m a toy.” She shook her hand rapidly, wondering if it was her real hand. “Do I have an owner?”
“Oh. You’ve reached that stage. You’re really taking to this doll thing, aren’t you?”
The pixie shook her head, “What do you mean?”
Clockwork walked to the bed and sat down on it’s edge. “Come here.” The pixie skipped over and flopped beside her. “The mind control spells work through several stages. First, you become enchanted with this place and the costumes and toys. Then, you want to be one of those pretty toys. You get this desire to be played with and owned. And when you are played with . . .” Clockworks lips twitched, “. . . it’s the greatest feeling in the world. You come back time after time and ask . . . beg, really, to be played with. And then you lose yourself to the doll.
“If you’re unlucky, you forget ever being a person and you play and have fun every day. If you’re lucky, though, someone will come to rescue you.” Lionheart looked over his shoulder and smiled softly to his tin toy. “If that happens, you fight against the spells put on you and wish day after day that you were human again.”
“Well that doesn’t sound lucky at all. That’s sounds just the opposite.” Tinkerbell put her hand on Clockwork’s shoulder.
“It’s both.” She admitted. “Look, just stay right here. Play freeze, and don’t move at all. Can you do that?”
The pixie nodded, and the tin doll walked back to the dresser and talismans. “What have you figured out?” The superhero shook his head.
“Nothing. We really need the old man to show us how this stuff works.”
“Yeah, like that’s ever going to happen.” Clockwork took a closer look at the talismans and their arrangement. Each talisman was a small object of some kind. One was a dollhouse door; another was a blue ragdoll dress, and yet another was a green toy soldier. About a dozen, they were laid out along the lines of a pentagram, and each was surrounded by a small metal bracelet. Small runes were inscribed onto the dresser on the inner edge of each of these bracelets.
Most of these runes were dark and dormant, but the runes for the center talisman glowed. This talisman was a pink ballerina statue, which sat on top of a faded Polaroid picture.
“Coppelia.” Lionheart whispered, and Clockwork nodded. “What does it mean, though?”
“I heard the old man say once that magic is born by strong emotions. Hate, anger, lust, love. The stronger the emotion the more powerful the spell.” Clockwork entwined her hand with his as she talked, “This house and everything in it – us, the dolls, and the house – is for Coppelia.”
Lionheart pointed to the statue. “Coppelia at the center.” He motioned to the closest talismans to her – a brush, a dress, and a stuffed heart – “the dolls for her to play with.” Clockwork looked the talismans farthest from the center – a door, a soldier, a key, a marionette handle, a vial of ink, a plastic missile, a, battery, and a small dresser.
“Things to control the dolls.” Clockwork said. She sighed a metallic sigh. “Maybe if we start with the outer ring we could break up all the security measures.” She looked to the inner circle, “I have a feeling those are going to be more trouble.
“Oh, hey, Mr. Bear, how are you?” TInkerbell said. Clockwork and Lionheart quickly turned and saw a large stuffed bear twice as wide as either of them. His head scraped against the top of the roof, and even though he was made of stuffing he looked like he could easily handle the tin toy and her plastic boyfriend.
“Oh, Crap.” Lionheart said.
Calliope was horrified. Everyone was horrified as they watched their kind and gentle owner grab Coppelia’s hair. She had switched dresses with Parker and was dressed in pinks and reds. Why she had switched Calliope didn’t know. Perhaps it was to be part of a plan that broke apart too quickly. Or perhaps this was the plan. She didn’t know – she only knew that the wizened old man had taken his hand in violence against his most beloved toy and only surviving family. And that frightened her stiff.
She saw Parker standing by the window, a near perfect imitation of Coppelia in her blue dress. She was surprised, too, her legs tense. And then on pointe slippers she ran toward the scene at the heart of the room. Calliope saw the guards by the door raise their muskets toward the charging doll. Calliope felt for the first time in years the lub and dub of a heart in her chest. The room slowed down.
The jester doll bent down and gripped the edges of the alphabet block in front of her. “Stay down!” She yelled to her beautiful friend inside. With all her might Calliope started to push the box on its wheels. It glided across the floor easily. Parker got out of the way just in time and the jester let go of the block, sending it careening into the male soldier and knocking him over.
Calliope slid on her legs across the floor. She looked up and saw the female soldier point her musket toward her. The gun popped. Calliope lost control of her wooden body and she collapsed to the wood floor. The lubs and the dubs in her chest stopped.
Parker – the real Parker – came running to Coppelia's aid. The toy wasn’t fighting with her father who shook her like the doll she was. Seven years of ballet training and fitness counted for something as Parker lowered her shoulder into the old man. Her body, though light, carried a surprising amount of muscle. The old man was caught off guard and both were sent sprawling across the floor.
The younger Parker was quicker to her feet and ran back to Coppelia. She wasn’t worse for the wear – only her hair roughed up and out of place. She looked for places to run, but five severe looking soldiers and soldierettes advanced on her, guns drawn. She stayed on the ground next to Coppelia. Parker saw Emily standing inside an alphabet block in her clown costume. She kept looking between Parker and the pink jester doll that was now lying pale on the floor.
“Run.” Parker said to her. Emily shook her head. “Please.” Parker said. Emily shook her head again. Her body had made up its mind – she wasn’t leaving her friends behind.
“You.” He growled at Parker. “You put these thoughts in my daughters head. You turned her against me. You could have been a pretty, perfect doll to laugh and dance up here for all eternity.” He pointed a finger at Parker, “but now you’re going to spend the rest of your very long life at the pit of a landfill.”
“Maybe.” Parker said, “but so will you.”
“Eh?” The man said, then Parker pointed to his sinister hand that had taken hold of Coppelia. He looked at it and his mouth dropped open. A sound not unlike a gargle crossed with a squealing pig came from his wrinkled mouth. His hand was made of rotting wood. He pulled up the sleeve of his nightgown and saw his entire lower arm made in the same fashion, from wood cracked and blackened. It was a spell he had long ago cast, and long ago forgotten about.
He stumbled back and kept his arm as far from his body as he could. The old man started running for the door, but Emily stood in his way, a stern look on her painted face and musket in her hand.
“I don’t have time for you, toy!” He shouted. “Guards, shoot her!” He stepped out of the way and five toy guns trained on Emily. And then, as if by some divine timing, the toy soldiers started to shake, rocking back and forth on their feet, and they were getting smaller by the second. Their hats stayed the same size, strangely, and they were soon covered up by the tall black caps. Or at least four of them were.
The fifth one, one of the blue jacketed soldierettes with a taller plume on her hat and more medals on her breast stayed the same height, but her wooden skin melted away. She dropped the gun and ripped the hat from her head, hurtling it across the room. She then fell to the ground and crawled backwards until she hit the far wall. Her frightened eyes never took their gaze from the hat she used to wear.
“Oh crap.” The old man said.