🎪 An Explosive Break - Identity V 🎪
With the release of Weeping Clown and thus more Hullabaloo lore, some of the things written here may be outdated slightly, but I have tried to keep it as canon-compliant as possible prior to this release. [Even then, I made mistakes in the details, but the general event progression is the same.] I hope you enjoy the read!
Mike stumbled where he stood, sitting quickly down onto his rough bed so as not to fall over. The acrobat was relatively new to the circus, but held utmost faith in himself. He’d spent the past few days unpacking and getting ready, but today was the one he’d been waiting for… He’d finally earned Bernard’s trust and been told he could perform for Hullabaloo. Checking in the mirror, he hastily locked the door to his small room. Sure, outsiders thought they lived in small tents echoing the Big Top, but the cloth was just an excuse to hide what little structure there actually was when the rooms were set up. He wasn’t quite sure whether it was to be considered a travelling circus, but he hoped so. The adventure promised to him was half of what had lured him into working there, flashy costumes and employment opportunities notwithstanding. Those he could showcase with just about any group that gave him half a chance.
Looking around the room, he spied one of his suitcases almost open, the materials within carefully wreathed in all manner of paddings. It was dangerous, carrying acids and other such hazardous equipment for his ‘special’ interest without having them locked up and secured, but it had been the best he could do at the time. Besides, if it hadn’t appeared to be a regular bag, there would’ve been far more questions to dodge. Despite being an acrobat, that type of thing wasn’t his strong suit. Standing with a slight groan, the world whipped around in front of his eyes for a moment. The bright lights weren’t the best thing for his eyesight, however young and spritely he appeared to be. Walking slowly over to the suitcase, he dragged it to sit on a rug near the farthest wall, tapping around on said wall for an inevitably loose board and finding one that he pried aside with his trembling fingers.
There weren’t exactly the best regulations in place for the hobbies Mike had, so he got away with what carelessness he displayed from time to time, but the thought of being discovered was the last thing he wanted anyway. Glancing back towards the door, a bead of sweat rolled down his forehead despite the lack of hot weather. He needed to pull himself together. As far as Bernard and anyone else was concerned, even his new friend Margaretha, the balls and other supplies contained within the hastily-constructed case were only for juggling. He’d hoped that was how it’d stay.
Dragging his fingers down the worn leather, he fiddled with the silver clasps, managing to heave the lid over without crushing anything vital. With a heavy thud, it all fell open, revealing the result of his efforts. Pristine bottles, shining juggling balls and miscellaneous tricks kept securely in place with all manners of loops and button-straps, as well as being padded in thickly with whatever Mike was able to find with a moment’s notice. The invitation to Hullabaloo had come with little warning, and he’d not wanted to waste any precious travelling time in case it delayed when he was able to perform. He’d not expected any sort of introductory delay, but all came together in its due course.
Mike’d been there for a few months at the time, and his heart still ached for home, but there were ways he could carry those memories with him. This was half of the reason why he’d not properly unpacked for so long - sometimes, he kidded himself into thinking he’d leave. But there were new friends here too, like Margie and Murro, and they were his reason to stay. The dancer was charming and trustworthy, even though he’d only known her for a few days, and there were rumours that she’d be introducing her fiancé soon. He couldn’t wait to make a good impression.
The Wildling, though, was like an older brother to him. A guardian when the ringmaster was asleep. His heart squeezed horribly every time he read the crinkling letter underneath his pillow, though he intended to frame it and keep it close. Having a hard time coming to terms with losses was something that’d followed the acrobat wherever he went. He was becoming more aware of these patterns over time, and preservation of memories was becoming easier due to the technology available. Attachments were fine things to have, he told himself, and Murro was safe out there somewhere.
Eyes widening suddenly, the young man snapped out of his nostalgic daze. He pulled on some white gloves at his bedside table, wiggling his fingers to make sure they weren’t going to slip off. Someone knocked on the thin door, which was really just a panel of enough wood to cover the entranceway and give him a modicum of privacy. Nearly slamming the suitcase shut on his fingers in his panic, he called out to his visitor, unable to keep his tone from trembling. Peeling off the gloves and approaching the doorway, he quickly wiped off the sheen of sweat gathering at his palms onto his pants and cleared his throat.
“Mike Morton here. What do you need?”
His voice had always been soft, but nothing compared to the near-whisper that escaped his lips then. He’d not intended for it to come out that way, but hadn’t truly needed to speak to anyone for quite a while. Brow creasing in concern, the acrobat made way for the figure at the other side of the entrance for them to come in. Usually, whatever small area he could claim as his own was nearly sacred to him, but the circus was new and frightening. Some companions would surely be an asset to him while getting used to everything. One certain performer had shown him kindness from the very beginning, and he couldn’t have been more grateful for that, but she did little to ease his nerves when he was so tired all the time.
The reply came after a moment’s pause, and the familiar dancer revealed herself in the doorway, leaning against the thin walls for a moment before Mike had the thought to usher her into the tent. Steps so light they could barely be heard, Margaretha picked her way through the strewn path of half-unpacked bags and perched on the end of Mike’s bed, crossing her long legs but remaining tense and ready to leave. Eventually, Mike snapped himself out of his uncharacteristic daze and retrieved a rolled-up piece of paper from his scattered belongings, hanging it up on one of the walls. Though not much of an artist himself, an old friend had designed a poster for him. However long it’d been since he’d visited home, he’d cherished that wherever he went. The performer’s mismatched eyes wandered to read the text, a gentle smile curling his lips upwards. “Mike Morton’s Birthday Party Show!”
For a brief moment he forgot he had a visitor, being so caught up in his euphoric memories. But Margie was a friend of the present, and had even placed enough trust in her companion to share with him a small secret. She’d slung an inconspicuous black bag over her shoulder and was setting it down on the bedsheets, her gaze doing a rapid and habitual sweep of the area to make sure nobody but the acrobat was watching. Ushering him over with one hand, she pushed the bag away with the other, setting its contents in her lap - a glittering music box, carefully modelled in the shape of a circus tent and adorned with the types of gems she’d previously only dreamed of.
“Isn’t it wonderful, Mike? Sergei had it made for me. He thought that being able to choose my own music for the dances - to an extent - may help ease my nerves. We are new here, as you know, and I find audiences can be unwelcoming at first. I can only hope you don’t get such thoughts.”
Mike, suddenly apprehensive to be in his own space, came to sit beside her on the bed, grabbing his gloves once more as he passed. He didn’t want to damage such a precious object with carelessness, much less get any marks on it that others would notice. Pausing for a second, his eyes found Margie’s as she nodded encouragingly. Opening the box with as much care as he could muster, Mike peered inside. Squinting, he looked up to his dressing table, finding a monocle and affixing the chain behind his left ear. Though just used as a cosmetic most of the time, he’d since put a magnifying lens in. Preparing his props had been tricky work until he’d committed the movements to memory, and swore he could do it with his eyes closed.
The details of it all were nearly overwhelming, but he could recognise how much care had been put into it, and that was all that really mattered. It wasn’t his, after all; it was Margie’s, and she was clearly smitten with both her fiancé and the gift. He took one glance at the handle and decided it would be insensitive for him to play it, seeing as it had been described in such a personal manner. Placing the lid back down, he smoothed his hand over the fine carvings and looked up at his friend once again to respond - he was easily distractible, so locking eye contact in some way was the easiest way for him to stay focused.
“It’s a remarkable show of craftsmanship, that’s for sure. He didn’t say where he got it?”
Margaretha laughed softly, taking the music box from Mike’s lap and placing it back in the bag.
“That’d ruin it, don’t you think? I can introduce you to Sergei, though, because we don’t have our show until tomorrow. You shouldn’t be watching your own troupe members perform without knowing their identities, at the very least. It’s early enough that you can get some undisturbed sleep afterwards. The lights are out today because Bernard is fixing things up for our new display, and it may well take more power than we’d otherwise have… I’ll be back in a moment.”
The dancer trailed off, standing up onto her toe tips as she left the bedside and the ‘tent’ in its entirety. There was an unfortunate chill in the air, and the short-sleeved outfit she wore diid little to shield her from the elements. Making her way to her own room, arms crossed and rubbing her shoulders, she was surprised to find Sergei and Joker waiting for her there. The clowns had evidently been discussing the upcoming performance, but stopped in their tracks when they saw Margie’s silhouette in the doorway. Sergei stood up, shifting his position atop her neatly-made bed - so clean that it looked virtually untouched - and gesturing for her to sit beside him.
“It’s a pleasure to see you, Nat- Margaretha… now if you’ll excuse Joker and I’s untimely intrusion, we were just talking about tomorrow’s performance. I was going to come and collect you, because we haven’t had a proper chance to talk since the ringmaster’s meeting, but you seemed busy.”
He raised a brow when the dancer didn’t join him, instead standing and gently grabbing her wrist to gain her attention.
“Are you feeling well? You’re restless, my dear.”
“I have other things on my mind, to tell you the truth. I told Mike I would help him settle in, and I mustn’t keep my friend waiting. Shall we move this discussion? I daresay he wouldn’t mind the company. I was planning to make sure he’d be familiar with you before our grand debut. How about you two come with me to visit him?”
Her reply was quiet, and she didn’t meet Sergei’s eyes. Usually, she wasn’t so reserved, but the dancer was definitely displaying nervousness beyond performance anxiety; it was true, but the thought of voicing any of her concerns was more nauseating than the issues themselves. Joker watched the exchange silently, bending down to fix a part of his prosthetic and swinging his leg back and forth to test the joint. He was simply happy to observe Natalie, if anything; the dancer had piqued his interest since the beginning. As much as he was jealous, he understood Sergei’s captivation.
Meanwhile, the Acrobat in question had set himself into quite a panic. He only had moments (before he thought his friend would return) to clear away his acids and materials in their cabinet, the likes of which was laid out on his bed where Margie had sat prior. It was made of dark wood, hosting a strong metallic loop at the top from which it could hang, with a thin layer of black felt on the back for protective purposes. He picked up a couple of large nails and hammered them into the wall, grimacing at the noise but knowing there was nothing he could do to combat it. Quickly, he began to sort things in the cabinet - acids in the shelves, juggling ball casings in a bag on the door, all in a flurry of movement that his own eyes could barely keep track of. Adrenaline was fuelling the young man, and it was just as well because of the others’ plans.
Soon after, Mike was finally able to hook it up on the wall. Fumbling with the ruffled collar he usually wore - lacking much in the way of a casual, out-of-performance outfit and preferring the colourful display - he lifted it over his head and set it down on top of the cabinet, a small silver key shaking free of the fabric to drape at his neck on a chain. It usually remained hidden amongst the folds, and for good reason. Access to his equipment wasn’t something he intended to give to anyone else, unless his ringmaster needed to do a check for security purposes. Taking this key off, he hung it on the handle of the cabinet, forgetting his caution as the sound of footsteps agitated him further. But they died down, and he decided that he’d have time to check on his companion - had she become lost?
Quickly grabbing a pouch with three casings and an acid vial small enough to fit in his pocket, Mike headed over to the tent where he’d seen Margie leave towards. His hands were trembling at his sides, and when he knocked the noise stuttered against the door-panel. Two seconds in, and he’d already shifted his first impressions with Sergei, who’d stood in order to open it. Instead of the critical scowl the performer had expected, a serene smile rested on the clown’s face when he stepped away to usher the stranger in, bowing slightly to show respect.
“Ah, Margaretha! Is this the dear friend who you were so concerned for?”
Sergei asked, glancing over his shoulder to check what her response was (in the form of a brief nod) before reseating himself. He didn’t want to check with Mike, though they were right there, for fear of overwhelming the already skittish-looking acrobat. However, he’d since straightened his posture and was already observing the room keenly, opting to sit on the floor with his legs crossed because there weren’t any more proper seats in the cramped area.
“The name is Mike Morton, sir. I didn’t mean to disturb your discussion, but Margie thought I should meet some of my fellow troupe members.”
Truthfully, Mike was still nervous, and it wasn’t just because he’d never met Sergei before. Joker was there in the corner, having been otherwise silently adjusting various things from his prosthetic leg for far too long to be genuine, and there wasn’t a thing about him that felt trustworthy. After a while of this observation, the man’s head jerked up, and he fixed Mike with a glare colder than any he’d seen before. Clearly, a mistake had been made, and Joker didnt take lightly to that sort of thing. He’d already been shoved into the same room as his rival. The last thing he needed was some nosy newcomer asking questions about his accident.
“Staring at someone sure is a strange way of meeting them, Mike. We communicate with words here.”
The sad clown murmured, scowl remaining on his face. Even though his expression was permanently downcast, he was clearly angered, and the atmosphere of the small room was immediately dampened. Shifting the positions of his legs on the floor, the acrobat looked away from his newfound adversary, unclipping the pouch from his belt and trying to ignore the trembling in his hands. Exhaling and attempting to regulate his breathing in order to respond, he busied himself undoing the drawstrings of the pouch he’d bought and tipping out its contents onto the floor. After a few moments of electric and uncomfortable silence between the performers, he rolled a vial in his left fingers and returned to looking at Joker, while the newcomers abstained from interruption. Though Margie calmed them all down, it would only make the situation worse to intervene.
The younger’s breath caught in his throat regardless, and he found himself unable to give Joker a proper response. This seemed to irk them even more, but there was little to be done. Just when Mike thought he might pass out from holding his breath in anticipation of another horrible quote, a gentle hand brushed against his shoulder, and Sergei stepped forward to stand behind him and glare at Joker.
“This is not the time for fighting. We are here to discuss and introduce, and nothing more. If you need to spit at each other, do it outside. We are all tired, but that is no excuse for treating others with disrespect. I’m sure Mister Morton here didn’t intend to forgo his words.”
Immediately, the acrobat relaxed a tiny bit, glad for the smiling clown’s company even if he was imposing in his own right. He nodded to acknowledge these words, but was otherwise absorbed in flicking the clasps on his juggling balls’ casings around. Intrigued, this captured the attention of his defender, who sat on the floor in front of his and looked back at Margie, who was gazing worriedly toward the darkening skies in her own right.
“On the other hand, Margaretha, you and I can stay back as long as we wish to discuss the performance. Things are skewing awfully, and the darkness is undoubtedly making things worse. I will make sure Mike can calm himself, then it’s best I help him find his tent. I think Joker will agree that he has overstayed his welcome already… I doubt I’ll have a good rest tonight; adrenaline is a powerful thing, and I would rather help you set up regardless.”
At this, the other performer heaved himself to his feet, teetering a bit as his prosthetic buckled but getting a hold of his balance just as soon. There was little point in arguing, it was true, and there were more important things he had to worry about than some passive-aggressive exchanges. Dipping his head to Margie and removing his hat with a flourish, he left the premises without so much as a glance to his fellow clown and the acrobat. They were different, and he didn’t often bother with those he couldn’t connect to enough.
Arriving at his tent, there was nothing to do but attempt sleep. Though he couldn’t possibly do that because his mind was racing with thoughts. Seeing the way that Margaretha had moved, so cautiously, and her overall unwillingness to be involved in the night (despite them being in her own room) was making him nervous. Regardless of his frail Weeping Clown character in shows, there was nothing much that moved the stalwart man. This was the one exception: some days, it were as if Margaretha were the only person in the circus who saw him behind his masks, and he wanted to protect her as best he could. Joker would be lying to himself if he said he didn’t have any feelings for her, but held back on his advances. Sergei was more trouble than he was willing to deal with, seeing how tightly-knit the two were.
Back in Margaretha’s tent, the woman herself had walked outside to catch some air, leaving her two friends alone. It was obvious, even before the pink reached his cheeks, that Mike felt ashamed of his performance in front of his peers. No matter how much he thought about it, he couldn’t muster the courage to say anything. A few excruciating seconds passed before the other man spoke and shattered the silence, warm tones alleviating some of the nervousness that’d consumed Mike’s thoughts. He could see why his friend trusted them so much.
“Say, Mike, what are those seams there? I’ve never seen such craftsmanship.”
Sergei asked, pointing to one of the distinctive red casings that the acrobat was fiddling with. It boasted silver-grey stitches that stuck out far more than usual juggling balls would call for, and it was clear they were closer to clasps than anything - meant to be shifted and opened, however deceiving their simpler appearance. At first, Mike’s fingers only tightened around the fabric. He didn’t know if Sergei really had his best intentions in mind. Sighing softly, he placed it gently in his pouch again, drawing the strings without another word. A response did come, luckily, but it was much shorter than he’d have liked, and the young man was displaying far more nervous behaviour than his usual bright disposition would allow.
“I made them myself, that’s why. Don’t trust anyone else to.”
He muttered, fastening the pouch onto his belt with a click and blinking sleepily. In his previous troupe, he’d found it more secure to glue magnets in between the leather belt-straps and sew them shut rather than having everything slip out all the time during performances. It was this sort of intuition that made Bernard recognise him as more of a valued member of Hullabaloo, combined with his naturally magnetic personality and willingness to try anything. Together with Joker’s mechanical knowledge, the two would’ve made an excellent team, but there was no chance of that union. Their ideals and viewpoints clashed too much, and beyond the stage they preferred keeping to themselves.
Mike shook himself back into the real world, cheeks tinging with a red flush when he became aware of Sergei staring quizzically at him. The man’s hands were balled into fists at his sides, but there was no other indication of anger, his expression frozen in a serene smile as always. He wasn’t satisfied with the acrobat’s response, but was equally sure he’d find out the truth in due time. He always found a way; his charm wasn’t just part of the show, and that was often deceptively detrimental to other people. The acrobat stood, unaware that his vial of acid had slipped out of its otherwise secure position on his belt and onto the floor until Sergei picked it up and held it out to him.
“A wise decision, that’s for sure. How about I accompany you getting to your tent? It’s getting late, and Miss Margaretha may need some time to herself. The power’s been diverted temporarily for my debut, so it’ll be darker for the journey, but I’m sure we can figure out how to get back between us.”
Mike curled his fingers around the vial carefully before slipping it into his pocket, only nodding a response. The dark was finally catching up to him, however much he doubted his ability to sleep. The coldness of Joker’s eyes and tone of voice wasn’t likely to leave him for a significant amount of time. Much like the man in question, the acrobat was mostly unfazed by things others might find unsettling; the way he’d been spoken to just dug into his skin a little too much to be fixed by blind optimism. The clown clearly had a vendetta against him. The reason was unclear at that point, but he was unwilling to poke around enough to get those types of answers unless it was strictly necessary.
The acrobat stood up quickly, the ground lurching under his feet for a few confusing seconds. Managing not to stagger, he took a moment to smooth a hand over the pocket where the vial was tucked and let out a relieved sigh. Given its contents, it would have been very easy to know whether or not it was broken, but he still liked to check. Small things like that were essential in keeping his mind peaceful when the circus was such a busy place. He found it more comfortable trailing behind Sergei until the man held the door open, at which point Mike took the lead and thanked Margie for her hospitality, falling back into step beside his companion just as soon. As courteous as the clown was, tension remained in the air wherever he trailed that made any situation uncomfortable - like the soothing he did was only an excuse to let things get worse when it was all gone.
The majority of the journey passed in silence, which relieved Mike of any increase in nerves for a precious few minutes. Leaning against his doorframe, the performer pivoted on his heel to thank Sergei for the company only to find they were staring directly past him, gaze fixed on the very same key that he’d been so careful to hide before that careless forgetfulness. While he wasn’t questioned about it, the clown did follow him into the tent, drumming their fingers against the wood of the wall on which the cabinet hung, dangerously close to where they key itself sat. Tension shivered its way into Mike’s shoulders, making them raise and pull visibly taut. Biting back as much nervousness as he could, the young man walked himself back over to the doorway and looked pointedly at his uninvited guest.
“I think you should find your way back to your own lodgings before you jeopardise your performance with sleep loss, sir.”
He muttered, barely awake enough at that point to prevent his voice from slurring.
Sergei agreed silently, slipping out the door and leaving it ajar. There was too much on his mind now that he’d seen the cabinet and the vial; though unaware of Mike’s bomb-crafting hobby and the true nature of the juggling balls’ construction, it had become abundantly clear that his fellow new employee wasn’t as open about things as he seemed. It’d warrant further investigation, also taking into account the previous protectiveness with which he’d held the key to the mysterious cabinet about him. The room wasn’t neat, either, but one thing appeared particularly amiss - an otherwise inconspicuous poster, yellowed with age and curling at the edges. It’d been stuck on like Mike hadn’t had enough time to think, placed on top of a board that’d raised enough to make it crinkle or pinch in various places when it already seemed fragile.
The once-smiling clown was acutely aware of his makeup smudging and being in dire need of a touch-up. He headed back to his fiancée’s tent on the way to his own, feeling an urge to make sure nothing was wrong after her strange and withdrawn behaviour earlier. To his surprise, she was slumped down in a sitting position and leaning heavily back against the room’s exterior, blinking at him as if she’d just been disturbed from sleep. Not unlike his own, mascara was running down her cheeks, and she flinched away from Sergei’s hand when he kneeled in front of her, reaching to wipe it off. Though it was getting colder and her clothes were less comforting, she refused to move from her spot. Shivering, she shifted slightly to wrap her arms around her knees, wanting to shrink back down into the dirt. Sergei was the last person she wanted to see. Joker had been speaking with her a lot more before then, and was helping her clear the fog from her eyes. Though the guilt was eating at her, she felt for Sergei less and less.
“What’s the matter, dear? You should come inside… the cold can’t be too good for you, and you must rest before tomorrow.”
The dancer didn’t look up at him, her silence weighing heavily in the air before it was interrupted by her coming to a stand. She gripped the fabric draped over the tent for a moment, not seeking Sergei to lean against. She was perfectly capable of fending for herself, and the clown needed to learn that. If she needed help, though, there were other people she could actually rely on. Turning to face the inside of her room, she craned her neck toward the man she was speaking to carelessly over her shoulder. Anyone could judge that she’d been waiting for him in the night, but the change in her attitude was far less predictable.
Margaretha - known as Natalie elsewhere, and to Sergei in private - didn’t care much for what he thought as she spoke. In truth, she’d rather have been with her other friends, but while he was around there were things she wanted to say to him. They were far more urgent than a need to sleep; though she’d desensitised herself to the majority of his affections over time, he was more powerful than he appeared. Bernard had taken a liking to him immediately, and since she was seen as a pair, a package deal alongside him… she shuddered to think of the prospects. She wasn’t ungrateful for what he’d done for her, and her earlier enthusiasm for the music boxes had been genuine when she’d visited Mike, but awareness had crashed over her since. It was all like a wave. Overwhelming, oppressive, leaving her struggling to breathe without any certainty as to where to drag herself next. But knowing about herself was better than the confusion, however painful.
Sitting back on her bed, she half hoped the clown wouldn’t join her. She steeled her resolve with a deep breath, the noise rattling in her ears. Everything was too much. If there was one thing she was good at doing after a lifetime of socialising with performers, it was masking her truer emotions. So she painted on a smile without make-up just in time for her fiancé to enter the room properly. He sat across from her, none the wiser. Drumming her carefully painted nails along the headboard of her bed, Margie rolled words around in her thoughts trying to figure out what was a good way to say what she needed to get out. There were two issues she wanted to point out, and one was decidedly lighter than the other, so leading with that one seemed the best bet.
“I’m just concerned about Mike, Sergei… I don’t know if he’ll fit in here, as Joker seems to have already made an enemy of him. I’ve no doubt he’s personable and easy to get along with, but that’s not enough. He’ll get torn apart!”
Usually level-headed, Margie appeared to be going off the deep end more than usual - her tone spiked upwards, and her hands were poised at either side of the jewelled cap she wore with all the intent in the world to rip her own hair out. They were trembling almost as badly as her voice before she gripped the sheets, manicured nails luckily prevented from digging into her sweat-slicked palms. She shifted about, anxious and unable to keep herself still. They were such small. erratic movements that it looked like she was flinching every so often. Even against the soft fabric, the sensations were irritating, but there wasn’t much she could do until her companion left.
The clown in question was looking at her with furrowed brows, expression an uncertain mixture of concern and anger. He didn’t want to be angry, but what she was saying just made so little sense. Why had she crawled here, out of the freezing weather, and acted in such a precarious way just to talk about someone else? He knew there was something she was hiding, and hated the idea of that more than anything else. Had he not worked for so many years to build trust in her, alongside genuine love? Irritably, he tugged at the collar of his outfit, otherwise maintaining his colder exterior. She didn’t need to know what he was truly thinking about. He gave her a simple nod in response, wanting to steer the conversation towards whatever was haunting his girl.
“While I do agree, don’t you think there’re much more… pressing matters to attend to, my love? You’re tenser than a tightrope.”
He responded quietly, leaning forward to place his elbows on his knees while waiting. Margie certainly could dance around the topics for long enough, but he could bring it all out of her with a few simple cues. Now that she felt he was truly listening…
“I don’t think this’ll work. We won’t.”
Tapping the wooden frame of the chair he was sitting on, Sergei’s gaze swept up to meet the performer’s. Was she serious? After everything he’d done for her, all the care and love and effort, this was how she repaid him? There was only one logical reason for her feeling this way, and he had little time to deal with it. With them. A laugh burst forth from his lips, incredulous. It was just too much to process that late at night. Straightening his posture and clearing his throat, he lied flawlessly, as he’d been doing far too many times to keep people happy. Didn’t he deserve his happiness? That was what Natalie was to him, and he’d already fought tooth and claw to have her. Never again would she willingly slip through his grasp.
“As your friend first and foremost, my dear Natalie, I’ll drive myself to the edges of Hell before I fail you. Whatever you feel is best for you is likewise best for me. Now, I should be going… Rest, will you? Your dreams may treat you better than this unkind world.”
Sergei replied as curtly as he could muster, forcing a smile onto his cheeks. He’d smiled for too long, but then wasn’t the time to break. Pulling his collar straighter, he nodded toward his companion and pushed to standing, bracing against the arms of the chair. He looked towards the windows where darkness had set in, but his job wasn’t done yet. He had places to be with new and old friends alike. What Margie had said wouldn’t deter him from what he’d planned. If anything, the words she’d given him made the blood boil fiercer in his veins.
Still seared into his thoughts was the cabinet in the Acrobat’s tent. Surely there was some sinister thing going on, and he wanted to know what that was. Despite the strange colour of the liquid in the vial Mike’d dropped earlier, he’d given no indication what it actually contained. Slipping off his boots in order to soften his footsteps, he hid them behind a nearby lamppost and (luckily still wearing socks) proceeded to creep about the exterior of his ‘friend’s new room. It was the dead of night by that point, and the unpacking everything had completely exhausted the young man, so there was very little stopping Sergei from going about his business in peace.
Said business, of course, began with finding a specific loose board on the outside of the room that Mike himself had located beforehand. This would be the only way Sergei could enter without disturbing the performer, seeing as he’d proven to be so sensitive to noises that he could be driven to waking up from paranoia. The shifting of the doorframe would be too obvious, when he could instead set the board down to lean against the softer fabric. Fingers curling around the nearly-splintering wood, he finally located the gap thanks to the tent’s cover being torn and caught in it. He shifted it aside and stepped through, ruffle at his neck having been wisely abandoned alongside his shoes beforehand. Who knew what he’d knock over if he wasn’t careful? He certainly didn’t intend to find out after getting that far.
Sleight of hand wasn’t his strong suit, but that was why he’d chosen the cover of the night. Steps as light as his girlfriend’s, he raised onto his toes to prevent as much noise as possible while advancing toward the cabinet. He raised one trembling hand to sweep hair obscuring his ear, only to be met with the terrifying sound of the young man rolling over to face him in the bed. Poised, Sergei kept as still as he possibly could. His heart pounded in his chest like a jackhammer. There wasn’t even enough space to breathe properly, so he didn’t. Just when he felt like his head was going to pop like a balloon, Mike rolled in the sheets again and faced the wall. Thank god.
The clown relaxed so slowly it felt like he was moving one muscle at a time, just in case anything went wrong. His fingers closed around cold metal, and he exhaled all of the tension he’d been holding in his body abruptly. Edging towards the cabinet, ever careful not to bump Mike’s bed, he grabbed a vial of acid and bolted towards the ‘exit’. Every bit of caution he’d exercised up to seconds before simply wouldn’t mean anything if he didn’t get to Joker’s tent, and fast. A small portion of his waistcoat’s fabric was snagged on the wood, but he moved too quickly to give it a second thought. The rush of blood in his ears was all he could hear, so he wasn’t even aware of the alarming sound.
There it was. Joker’s tent was the largest in the area even though Bernard had sworn they were all the same, and despite what others claimed Sergei thought he was the ringmaster’s favourite instead of the starry-eyed blond he’d met earlier. There was a quick detour he needed to make, though, and it was one that made the ticking of the clock even more evident: he swooped into his own room and picked up a palette to tuck into a small bag and bring with him, relocating the vial from his jacket into the front pockets of it. Taking his time to get back to where Joker slept, he knocked on the door and tried to ignore the tension running through his whole body. The wait - though it only lasted a couple of minutes as the other stirred and came to the door - felt nigh-eternal.
Joker rubbed his eyes before stepping aside, face free of makeup but gaunt and tired as ever. He just wanted relief from everyone unless it was Margie, and was very tempted to shut the door on Sergei and let everything fester. But the other would use his foot to block it from closing if that’s what it took; there was no way he could afford to back away from reality now, especially if that meant jeopardising the steps he’d planned out meticulously. Disregarding his own tired body, a showman’s grin stretched wide to shift his expression and mask his sinister intentions.
“Hello, Joker… I apologise for the early morning intrusion, but I was wondering if you’d be available to help me. You see, I have my big debut performance with Margaretha tomorrow, and I cannot find an appropriate make-up look. Surely an experienced clown such as yourself would have some advice? I have my own supply of greasepaint, so you needn’t bother with that, but if you could give me a demonstration of some of your own work I’d appreciate it greatly.”
At first, the man truly did intend to close the door. But that would result in more trouble, seeing the time sensitivity of the question. So, with his every muscle telling him to stop, he ushered Sergei in and closed the panel behind them.
“You’re lucky I couldn’t get rest. Maybe this’ll help me for a while. You sure can talk a person to sleep.”
Joker huffed, gesturing for Sergei to sit down. His large hands weren’t the best at applying finer make-up, so he usually had one of the dancers do it for him, but he had no idea how basic the information was that the other really needed. To belittle the person who was hurting the target of his affections was one thing he planned to accomplish. Taking a seat himself, he heaved a case full of palettes and brushes onto his dressing table, switching the bulbs on. The zipper on the top of the case was straining. Sitting straighter, Sergei’s eyes were trained on the case, and he shifted forwards on his seat when Joker retrieved a specific range of colours. He was almost breathing down the other’s neck at that point, but the larger of the two was too tired to care. His eyes were already drooping, though not another word was spoken. It didn’t matter.
For a brief moment, Sergei became unsure of his actions. The weight of the task was looming over him, heavier by the moment. There was no other choice. Conveniently enough, his companion needed to wash the brushes from the previous night’s applications. This raised Sergei’s lips in a bemused smile. If Bernard were to find out the utter carelessness of this act, he’d surely be questioned. Proper clowns knew the greasepaint brushes needed thorough overnight soaking the majority of the time. Notifying Bernard could only happen tomorrow, and the plan left no room for tomorrows…
Watching until the weeping clown left the room, he spun into action. Taking the container of acid and one of the spare brushes, he became occupied combining the ‘ingredients’, dropping the emptied vial back into his bag and setting the liquid with powder in its pot. When all was said and done, he cleared his throat and waited for his ‘friend’ to return with the fresh brushes. Shaking the tightness from his shoulders, he sat his own palette down and began to idly apply a white base onto his face. Act natural. He was lucky that the greasepaint was liquid normally, because the consistency of his companion’s didn’t change noticeably. Soon enough, Joker returned, practically slamming down the cup of water he’d placed the brushes into.
He was angry about something, but Sergei was in no hurry to ask. He simply had to wait and confirm the other clown would take their own step into his plan, and then could leave and flee into the night with Natalie for good. Exhaling heavily, he stripped his calloused hands of their gloves and placed those aside. The next few minutes were spent in silence as Joker applied the base coat, this being as pleasant an experience together either would likely get that morning.
Those precious minutes were all Sergei needed as screams met his ears.
Joker gripped his rival’s shoulders with the adrenaline-fuelled strength of a thousand men, melting face glaring as much as it was able. He used this grip to heave himself onto a chair, sure he was going to die. But surviving was more agony than death, and the man who pushed him unceremoniously back to the floor knew this. He twisted back on his heel, well aware that Joker would no longer be able to speak his protest. At least not for that night. Thus. Sergei contentedly returned to his own tent, sleeping soundly for the first time in an age.
Mike Morton, on the other hand, stirred early. There was a strange draft coming in from outside, and the warmth coming from his thinning sheets wasn’t nearly enough to stave it off. He sat up and let out a groan of tired protest, peering with bleary eyes at the clock on his bedside. Six in the morning? Bernard had insisted on meeting with him at eight… there wasn’t much point in sleeping more. Despite however much he wanted more rest, his body didn’t shut down very quickly, so one of those hours would be likely spent trying to sleep anyway. He stretched for a moment, wincing at the cracking of his joints. A thought hit him like a train seconds after, and he shoved his hand underneath the pillow, exhaling in relief. The letter was still there.
There was no clear reason to be paranoid, but the hairs on the back of his neck were prickled regardless. Slowly pulling on his clothes, he came to strapping on his silver belt. The round in the centre could click open, so he was tempted to place something in there for the comfort, but decided against it. That which had once been habit made him feel self-conscious now that he was older. The other members of Hullabaloo made him feel young and inexperienced, but he knew better than to believe that. His relentless optimism in the face of mockery would have made him a good smiling clown, but the acrobat’s path was one he was more than happy to walk down.
After a few minutes of daydreaming and getting ready, Mike turned to his cabinet and pulled on the thicker black gloves he used to handle his materials, humming an idle tune as he went about clicking things to his belt. Something was amiss. He looked about, brows crinkling at the sight of an empty space on the shelf. Murro had warned him about such accidents - “I noticed that your cabinet wasn’t locked. Watch out for thieves.” - but he’d let it slip his mind. It felt like a betrayal of his friend’s memory, almost, but he shook the negativity away. Walking to his desk after double checking the cabinet was locked, he scribbled a note for Bernard and read it out loud. He could feel the key safely resting against his neck, entirely obscured by his collar. It made him feel a little better about his mistake, but the fact remained that he’d have to go and get more acid.
“Dear Bernard: I have an errand to run. When taking stock of my equipment, I miscounted and now have to retrieve something from a supplier. I may not be able to make it to the meeting as soon as I’d like, if at all. Apologies for this oversight. Regards, M.M.”
Folding it in half, the young man stuck it in his pocket and exited the room. Soon enough, he reached the ringmaster’s tent and slipped it under the door, hurrying to exit the premises so he didn’t disturb any of his fellow troupe members by making too much noise.
Two were already active, and that wasn’t something Mike needed to know. Sergei had told ‘Natalie’ to escape the circus grounds that previous night, after his altercation with Joker, just to make sure she never got mixed up in it all. He didn’t even need to considering what she’d confessed, but his own feelings for her were greater in that moment than any jealousy or accidental harm he may have caused otherwise. The Weeping Clown, in agony, had never let things rest. He’d dragged himself to his rival and mutilator’s dressing room just before the performance rehearsal, armed with clawed gloves so sharp they were nothing short of gauntlets. He’d sworn revenge, and he’d have it even if it turned out to be his last possession.
Swaying lightly due to his prosthetic being knocked out of place, he braced himself against the doorframe, leering in at the smiling clown. Even though only his face - and not his throat, for the most part - had been burnt, he hadn’t had the courage to speak. The side of his face remained thickly bandaged, and the lack of depth perception was truly throwing him off. Disturbed by the noise eventually, Sergei looked up to see Joker, scowling for the one time in their mutual feud’s duration. Oh, how lovely it was for Joker to see the Smiling Clown crack even for a moment. He then lurched forwards, using his pure unstable weight to pin Sergei down. Things weren’t over until one of them was dead, and Joker didn’t intend to submit to the darkness.
With a deafening crack, Joker bought the flat side of his fist down onto the side of his enemy’s head and rendered them unconscious, pressing the pad of his glove to the impact site in order to prevent bleeding as best he could. Due to how early it was, nobody present was awake, so he was free to rig up his tent in preparation for his little project. Nobody much visited him without Margie there, so he could also bar the doors and windows without raising much suspicion.
He was in need of a new face, and had always wished to smile.
The pain that he felt performing self-surgery was little compared to that he felt in his heart without the woman he’d tried so hard to keep under his thumb. Even though he’d nearly succeeded in eradicating his only competition, she wasn’t around to see it and revel in it all. He’d liked to have thought he’d freed her from Sergei. Fuelled by this unspoken sorrow, this untamed anger, he affixed a mask over his face just in case people started asking questions. Keeping his head down, he became increasingly grateful for the cloaking darkness even though it began to fade. The work was easy enough… Nobody would get in his way for the first time in his life. He’d give his nemesis a grand send-off, if only to celebrate the loss more than the life of the clown.
Mike, completely oblivious as to what was happening back at Hullabaloo, had retrieved his acid and was slowly making his way back to the circus. The road was long and confusing, though, so he’d had to stop on the side. Sitting cross-legged, he retrieved some water and an apple from his bag. As much as he had his friends to keep him going, things became notably quieter since Murro left, so he’d been eating a lot more of the distinct red fruits simply to keep that memory alive to a degree. The Wildling himself had wished to disappear, but that was the last thing the Acrobat wanted to happen. He was the first one who’d shown true kindness in the troupe.
Joker knew that the power had been diverted to the main tent, so he made his way there and bashed in the door with his shoulder. Luckily, it didn’t possess a lock. With one hand, he held Sergei’s corpse, unceremoniously dragging the feet against the carpet. In the other, he heaved a bulky case of unknown materials, this being the first thing he thought to set down. It was up against the door as an extra layer of barricading just in case. There had to be an electrical box somewhere, or at least a few switches that he could mess around with… the sun was beginning to rise, and looking out the window nearly knocked him off his feet with the pain. Even though he’d donned a mask to help with the exposure, whatever acid managed to get near the opposite side of his face had messed with the light sensitivity in his singular good eye.
He knelt down to the case, running his fingertips along the edges before finding two small notches on the sides. Pressing these inwards, he twisted the lid off. Trying to grab the handle and open a clown’s bag of tricks would almost never work, and this was proof of that. Mike had never been the only one with a darker interest. Contained within were the makings of several different firelighting strategies, including gloves suspiciously close to those the Acrobat had put on to deal with corrosives earlier. Picking out all manner of tools, he was soon able to locate the electrical box, which was only guarded by a simple lock the clown would’ve been able to pick within a matter of seconds.
But he went about things more precisely, loosening things here and there to more or less dismantle the front panel before examining the results. Now this was something that all of the incessant tinkering work with his rockets had prepared him for. Electrical currents may have been less familiar to him, but he wasn’t trying to learn how to stop or initially prevent an electrical fire - he was going to create one, and intended to succeed. Squinting through yet another pounding headache, his hands trembled as he pulled a pair of rubber gloves onto them. As destructive as he wished to be, the only person he intended to burn (yet) was Sergei.
Revisiting the chest multiple times, it dawned on him that the whole ordeal was far more tedious than he’d accounted for. But the rigging was all ready, and all he needed was to flee. The case also contained the essentials from his tent, so he was perfectly capable of simply running. There was nothing he needed to go back to get. Everything was so meticulous, and yet the pyre would raze it to the ground. Sergei, in a sense, would represent Joker’s own rebirth. The Weeping Clown would finally be able to grin.
So he pulled the switch, and everything came to light.
The spread was fast, and the searing heat kept the clown on his toes. If he did so much as look backwards, he’d lose enough seconds to potentially jeopardise his own life. He powered forward with the chest in his arms, staggering more than he cared for but never falling. It’d all come down to that minute, possibly less time. All he could do was continue moving, stumbling near-blind and choking due to the heavy haze of smoke and ash that was being fed into the atmosphere. The main tent had caught entirely by that time, and it was creeping to the outskirts at an alarming rate, where some of the smaller tents were positioned. The knowledge that his own was already reduced to ashes was nothing. He’d begin a new life, one where he could always smile.
He was knocked down eventually by his prosthetic’s melting together, as he’d predicted. No time remained for him to get it fixed in the moment, so he took it off and dropped to a crawl in the dirt to get away from the rest of it all. There was no telling where he went after that, but the fire never did catch up to him. He left the smouldering wreckage of his workplace behind, though the weight of what he’d done would always carry itself upon his back. With a rattling cough, he dragged himself by his forearms (hands shaking too badly to help) into the shade of one of the last unburnt trees in the vicinity. Before his fatigue forced him into an uneasy sleep, he saw a silhouette emerge from the horizon that he stared out towards, embers popping behind him.
And Joker’s eyes hadn’t lied to him. Mike had returned from the supplier to find this carnage, immediately shielding his eyes to peer into the debris. Were his eyes deceiving him? The entirety of Hullabaloo, reduced to nothing. He didn’t even know where his tent was in the heaps of seared fabric and wood. The young man’s voice died in his throat, and he wouldn’t have been able to make any noises regardless of the oppressive air. Mike’s only thoughts were occupied by his friends, but he hadn’t seen Margie since the day before. Lethargy and grief pulled the Acrobat to his knees, and a fact made itself so obvious then that he wished he could be reduced to nothingness.
Murro’s letter had burned away, just like the rest of his hope.
