#catct chapter 2

[kiarazuri]

Chapter 2: Lottie

“Golden tickets,” Charlotte “Lottie” DuCiel (27M, he/him) states matter-of-factly.     Sucre DuCiel, matriarch of the family and Lottie’s mother, stops typing long enough to turn her head, raise her left brow, and give Lottie the most ‘what about it’ expression in the world.      “I think we should hold a contest for our customers to win a tour of the factory,” Lottie tells her, forcing himself to keep still, to not fidget under his mother’s stare. “Using golden tickets.”     “You mean to allow people inside the factory?” Sucre clarifies, the question obviously rhetorical as she turns to face Lottie head on. She leans forward in her chair and places her hands on the desk between them, steepling her fingers. She taps her acrylics together in a steady, slow rhythm. Lottie almost flinches at the sound—a shiver running up his spine—but manages to hold it in at the last second. He’s always hated the feel of acrylics, the memory of his one and only pair, of tapping them against anything, making his skin crawl.      He has the urge to glance at the chipping gumdrops on his own nails. He went to the salon only a week ago but they’re already due for a touch-up. He’s been smoothing a quick layer of glamour over them to mask the imperfections every day before work.      Lottie doesn’t fidget, doesn’t flinch, and doesn’t look at his nails.      He doesn’t show weakness or insecurity. He can’t. Not now.     Sucre DuCiel has been in the foulest mood of Lottie’s life these last few months, forcing everyone in the family to walk on eggshells lest they unleash the Factorie Queen’s wrath.     The last time that happened… the river flooded.     As his mother’s tapping takes on an incessant speed, Lottie keeps his cool by counting down from ten: 10 amandines, 9 amygdalopitas, 8 angel cakes, 7 aranygaluskák, 6 babkas, 5 bara brith—     Sucre stills. Silence rings in Lottie’s ears.     He keeps his eyes focused just above his mother’s, on the spot directly between the woman’s beautifully arched brows—filled in today with a black pencil just a few shades darker than her natural color to make them pop! against her deep brown skin. The same color as the roots of the voluminous ombre curls framing her face.     “Explain it to me,” she commands, finally.     Lottie lets the breath he’d been holding out slowly, unobtrusively; praying she doesn’t notice.     “Five tickets will be hidden in our signature candy bars and each of the five winners will be allowed a single companion each,” Lottie explains, keeping his voice even. “10 people, no more, no less. Allowed inside the factory on a single day for a 10 hour tour guided by myself and a handful of my sibling-cousins.”     Tap! Tap! Tap!     10 basbousas, 9 baumkuchen, 8 bebinca, 7 berlingozzi, 6—     “Give me a reason.”     “Good publicity,” Lottie admits truthfully.     Sucre’s lips twist in displeasure, her brown eyes hardening.     She knows exactly what Lottie means—as did his sibling-cousins when he first floated the idea. Délicieux Carré is in deep need of good publicity at the moment, have needed it ever since The Kandy Killer or Jawbreaker or whatever the newspapers have been calling the serial killer—the source of the matriarch’s aforementioned foul mood,—started using DuCiel territory as their hunting ground seven months ago.     From a public standpoint, it’s bad.     From a private standpoint, it’s worse.     Especially since the killer has been using DuCiel products as calling cards. They even stopped selling their jawbreakers and candycanes after the second murder, but the cakehole must have stockpiled beforehand ‘cause all the murders since have still featured them.     Not to mention the shame of not being able to figure out who the fudger is.     In their own territory.     It’s enough to make all of them a little irked.     “Why golden tickets?”
“No one can resist a good gimmick,” Sucre stares at him; waits for him to continue. Lottie takes a moment to control his voice. “Because if the tour is themed after Wally Wonda’s than—“     “Than you and your sibling-cousins can play as many tricks as you like,” Sucre finishes, breaking eye contact. She takes a deep breath that tells Lottie all he needs to know about her feelings on the subject. “Is this a trap for the killer or simply a means to play games?”     Both. “We think it’ll do our business good. People have been curious about the inside of the factory since Mamie’s reign,” Lottie urges. It’s true, even if it’s not the only truth. “We’ll even give a public announcement everyday telling our customers how many tickets are left to drive sales.”     “Make them fight for the honor.”     “Exactly.”     Sucre finally returns her gaze to her son, her eyes flashing a bright orange before returning to their human brown. “There are rules.”     “Of course, Maman. We’d never break your rules.”     She doesn’t comment, merely starts listing each rule off on her perfectly manicured fingers. Seeing them up close makes Lottie jealous. I really need to get my nails redone.     “No tortures, no disappearings, no product or profit tampering, and keep far, far from the fairyhole,” Sucre commands. “Understand?”     “Yes, Maman.”     Sucre snaps her finger, the usual sign that she’s done with a conversation.     Lottie stands to leave when a single, loud sound stops him in his tracks.     “Look at me.”     Lottie returns his gaze unerringly to his mother’s brow.     “Tell me your plan for the killer.”     Lottie swallows. 10 bibikkan, 9 bibingka, 8 bienenstich, 7 birthday cakes, 6 Black Forest, 5 blitztorte— “Our tricks will double as traps, capturing and collecting—“     A genuine smile curls Sucre’s lips. “Just like Wonda’s.”     “Yes,” Lottie admits. “And because of the nature of our factory, it’ll be easy to interrogate them with fairy foods disguised as samples.”     She nods appreciatively. “Don’t screw up.”     “We won’t,” Lottie promises with a bow of his head.     Lottie steps out of his mother’s office. Waits for the door to shut with an audible, heavy click! and sighs the heaviest sigh in his life (well, not life, but it’s still very heavy). As the air in his lungs escapes, Lottie deflates, the tension in his shoulders easing.     He rolls his shoulders and cricks his neck.     “Nerve-wracking,” Lottie murmurs to himself, pulling his phone from the breast pocket of his navy suit.     He pulls up the Chaos App and navigates through the DuCiel Confectionarie server till he reaches the Events category, inside is the #Wonda Tour channel he’d created a few weeks ago (after the last murder left them all scrambling to find a solution).     Charlotte♡Fever: Maman said yes     CreamQueen💦: Thats what I like to hear *Fist-Pumping Baby Meme*     𝓑ittersweet𝓑itch: Awesome!     🗝LIME0314159: Oh thank gods, thought she was gonna eat you alive     CLAIRCardCaptor: Surprised she didnt yeet u into the Hole     beeloverbabe: glad you survived Bro     Charlotte♡Fever: Asdfghjklf 😭 it wasn’t *that* bad yall     Charlotte♡Fever: im heading back now     Charlotte♡Fever: Meet me there “CreamQueen💦 is typing…” appears beneath my final message just as a sound like a giant suction-cup releasing pops through the air.     Lottie freezes mid-step, senses tingling.     He doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, doesn’t even think as he waits for the sound to repeat itself.
When it does, Lottie pockets his phone and turns left, aiming for the ruckus.     DuCiel Confectionarie is a maze of constantly moving twists and turns that anyone without the magical knowhow to navigate it will get lost in. But there are some parts, some doors or windows or potted plants, that stay, that never move no matter how much the wild magic commands it. This area, where his mother and auncle’s offices are, is one of those stagnant parts. The area surrounding the offices is another story. It’s only half-wild, alternating between three areas and three areas only: 1) The Testing Hall, 2) The Experiment Hall, and 3) The Marketting Hall.     The sound comes again, and when Lottie pushes through a large double door to follow it, the staggered, labelled red doors in the hallway beyond are instantly recognizable.     The Experiment Hall.     The Citrus Triplets’ domain.     Two of those triplets responded to Lottie’s message in Chaos, but he hasn’t heard from the third all morning. But that’s not unusual. Of the DuCiels, Aigreur spends the most time outside the Compound.     The sound comes again.     Followed by yelling, yipping… and mooing.     Oh no.     Lottie’s stops in front of the door labelled DAIRY. He presses his ear to the door hoping to make sense of the sounds, but has to admit defeat when a crash is added to the mix. Lottie sighs. Places a hand on the door handle.     And walks straight into an absolute disaster.     There’s a split-second between Lottie opening the door and the sound of another suction-cup releasing, just enough time for him to catch a glimpse of the room’s insides, of Aigreur chasing an escaped goupil* between the cow-stalls and the goupil tripping over one of the milking-machine’s long tentacles, before he’s drenched.     And even if he hadn’t seen the fluffy yellow cow the milker’d been hooked up too, Lottie’d recognize this dairy the second it touched his skin. Thick, slimey, viscous, and covering EVERY. SINGLE. INCH of his body from head to feet and the tips of his toes.     Custard.     Lottie holds his breath; in disbelief, in shock, in fear—what flavor is this?! The scent is too savory-spicy to ever be right for a custard—and counts, prays that when he reaches 1 he’ll wake up and this’ll all be a dream. 10 blondies, 9 bolo de mel, 8 Boston cream pies—The urge to breathe is too much. God-DOUGHNUT.     When Lottie releases his held breath he vibrates his lips, pushing against the layer of muck coating them—only for a glob of disgusting, MUSTARD FLAVORED custard to fall from his cupid’s bow and land in his mouth.     Lottie gags.     “WHAT UNHOLY EXPERIMENTS ARE YOU DOING IN HERE?!” He screams blindly, and knowing full well he’s not alone.     “It’s—” Aigreur’s voice breaks through the gunk covering Lottie’s ears. “—for a new vol au vent flavor.”     Vol au vent.     VOL AU VENT.     “IGGY, ARE YOU FUDGING KIDDING ME?!”     Aigreur’s wince is palpable in the otherwise still room.     The goupil must have stopped running.     Prob’ly hiding, the li’l pez.     “Sorry, Lot,” she replies, sounding like a kicked puppy. “E’erythin’ woulda been dandy if Toutou hadn’t gotten in.”     Toutou, otherwise known as the biggest li’l pez in the factory.     Forget hiding, the goupil probably fled the second the custard touched Lottie’s skin. Escaped into the wild wild factory somewhere where none of the DuCiels will find them for months, not till they’ve all forgotten The Custard Incident and the little fairy fox will be safe from retribution.     Lottie makes a mental note not to forget.     I will have my revenge, he promises.     “You need ‘elp gettin’ cleaned up?”     Lottie shakes his head. “Nope,” Another glob of custard splits from his lip on the ‘P’. “But we’re gonna talk about this—” Lottie motions to himself, the custard. “—later.”     “Yes, Sir.”     Arms airplaned out to his sides and legs slightly spread, Lottie turns and waddles back out the door. He walks slowly, oh so carefully navigating the factory’s treacherous halls on blind autopilot. At some point he wipes at his face with his drenched suit arm but it’s useless. Either nothing came off, or he just transferred even more custard onto his face. He resigns himself to relying on his memory to get him out, seeing today’s layout in his mind’s eye.     He feels the flow of the factory’s wild magic with his own and uses this extra sense to head straight for the Hidden West Door that opens directly onto Bonbon Street. If he takes that door out, all he’ll have to do is cross the street and enter through the Hidden East Door.     Just fifty-feet from one door to the other.     And then it’ll be a straight shot to the DuCiel apartment complex.     I can do this, Lottie just needs to keep his senses on alert. He makes sure to put a full layer of glamour over his skin, using it as a touch barrier to feel every inch of his surroundings. It’ll give him a warning if anyone comes too close.     He finds the Hidden West Door, and pauses with his hand on the knob.     10 brownies, 9 buccellati, 8 budapestlängd, 7 bundts, 6 bustrengos, 5 butterkuchen, 4 cassata…, he breathes in as deep as the cursed custard will allow, opens the door, and walks outside.     His glamour instantly goes on alert, yelling DANGER! DANGER!     Lottie swerves, easily avoiding the customer.     Or so he thinks.     He only makes it halfway around before he smacks!–and when I say smack! I mean the wet sound of bad kissing–headfirst into a hard, warm chest. Lottie clenches his eyes tight, hoping against all hope he didn’t just do what he thinks he did.     But he did.

To Be Continued in Chapter 3 💗