Atriumglass Marionette

Its toes hung a handspan above the tile. There was no support we could see, only hair-thin reflections rising from its wrists into the atrium. Brass framed broken skylight glass, with railing bolts at the joints. A mannequin cracked; the Marionette laid a bright thread across the break and pulled it shut.

When we advanced, threads caught our reflections. Our arms lagged behind what we meant to do. Smashing the mirror loosened the strings, but it rebuilt the surface from shards. Red clay stopped it. Smeared over the glass, the clay gave the images weight and dragged the lines to the floor.

It repairs and repositions sturdier allies from behind them, serving the pattern the atrium remembers long after its original authority has gone. Intruders are drawn onto polished tile. Small shards multiply into a screen. A blow can scatter the glass without ending control if an intact reflection remains.

Matte dust and rough clay deny clean attachment. Cloth or darkness can also take it away. The construct compulsively follows repeated routes. Irregular changes in direction can make it cross and tangle its own lines.