14: Stage Persona

Blood on his paws. Blood in his ears. His mouth, nose, clothes, so much blood. Justin's eyes watered as he ran through the cold night air, rogue twigs ripping at his face and shoulders as he sprinted by, pumping his little arms as hard as he could. His chest burned like the sun and his head throbbed with each step. He could barely remember anything that had happened since his family was taken, but he'd seen a moment he could slip away and he'd taken it. Now the ghosts chased him. Revenant like monsters dressed in bones, always speaking about weird things he didn't understand. They'd poked him with dozens of needles, fed him weird food, and marched him and his family for miles without proper food or water. They kept talking about salvation, about 'final rest', but Justin just wanted everything to be normal. He didn't know or care what a circulation was, he didn't give two spits about 'resetting the current', and he didn't believe in whatever psychic eyes were. They were insane; to his eleven-year-old mind there was no alternative to the kidnappers being completely, raving mad.

“If either of you can." His mother had whispered on their third night, when they all huddled together for warmth, chained to a nearby tree. “Get away. Don't worry about us. Promise me. Promise me, promise!" She'd nearly screamed them, uttering the words as fiercely as she dared.

The wetland was difficult to run through, the twisted nature of the swamp giving him all manner of sinkholes and puddles to splash through. He'd tripped three times now, but every time he got back up. It was dark and foggy, and the dense concentration of trees made for poor sightlines at the best moment. He wanted to get away from the ghosts, he couldn't think about much else.

They were behind him. Somewhere, looking, all going in the wrong directions, tripping and falling. He heard one of the men – some lizard thing – screaming as he broke a joint. Justin knew it was wrong to enjoy people in pain, but he felt vindicated anyway.

They killed his father first. A memory so hazy and warped he'd practically blocked it out. One of the ghosts had come for his sister, he knew that much – his daddy hadn't liked it and he'd argued and then… nothing. His father was simply gone. His sister had lost a hand somewhere, and eventually they did the same to her as their father. Justin remembered that part, he remembered his mother screaming, the ropes they'd tied around his sister's wrists, so much blood, so much yelling. He couldn't focus on that, couldn't think about that. His mother was still there, she was missing her eyes but she was alive – if Justin could find help, they could save her. They could go home.

The young lion slammed into a tree, grinding to a halt and crashing to his knees. He wasn't wearing a shirt, and the itchy trousers they'd given him were torn and soaked with disgusting marsh water. It was sticky and it stunk, but he didn't care. He was freezing too, but he did his best to stop his teeth from chattering too loudly. He could hear the ghosts, hear them walking around, cursing at each other, offering him promises of safety. Justin scooted under a log, pushing his paws over his ears. They'd kept saying before how they wanted to be free, kept saying they wouldn't hurt them – all lies. This was a lie too, but if he listened… maybe he'd forget again. Justin didn't know how long he'd been marching, but it had been days and days, occasionally stopping a night or two in one place, more frightened prisoners joining them to replace the ones that died. Never more than twelve at a time, all roped together, under close watch from guards with rifles, knives, and crossbows. They said how nobody would be hurt if they cooperated, which was also a lie. But they also promised any attempt at escape would result in family members dying. Only a few tried to run. He'd heard a few of the guards talking about returning to someone, a sorcerer named 'Oracen'. Justin didn't know who that was, or if he was really a sorcerer, but the way they spoke terrified him. Now, in the distance he heard them calling for him, and he tried to wriggle deeper under the log.

When Justin woke he was even colder. He wiped at his eyes with a muddy paw, trying to ignore the crawling sensation of bugs swarming on his back as he pried himself out from under the rotten log, hesitantly standing and looking around. The marsh was thick with fog, bathing the forest in a kind of ethereal white light. It was a few hours past dawn he guessed, and Justin could hear no signs of the ghosts. Still groggy, his stomach riddled with shooting pains, he picked a direction and began to limp.

Eventually the fog cleared enough he could see the sun properly, and he aimed for north – his daddy had taught him how to do that. He didn't know why really, but their old home had been in the north of Quindon Province, so maybe he could find his way to somewhere familiar.

Quindon don't have no marshes though. He thought, wincing as he put pressure on his ankle. It had rolled somewhere when he was running.

He walked for hours, but he was beginning to get used to that. Eventually he left the forested marshland behind, the landscape petering out into simpler, dryer plains. The grass here wasn't like home's rich green colour, it was aged, faded and thirsting. Justin walked and walked, the sun beating down on him.

Eventually a small plot of fenced land popped into his vision. He wasn't sure exactly when it had appeared, but he aimed for it nonetheless. There was nowhere else to go, and if he didn't get something to drink soon he wouldn't make it much farther. Even he knew that.

“Hello?" A tidy voice called as the front door swung inwards, a minute after he'd knocked. “Oh, young man, are-are you… alright?" It was a homely old badger lady speaking, her eyes creasing at the edges as she knelt down to look at him. Her mouth fell as she slowly took in his state, first noticing his lack of a shirt, then the dirt, and then the blood. “What happened to ya, kiddo?" She whispered.

“My… They…" He tried. His chin began to quiver, and he quickly crumpled into sobs. The old badger took his paws and squeezed them.

“Now, now, hold up there… c'mon in now." She led him inside, pulling out a cloth and wiping at the crusted fur around his eyes. She let him finish weeping, wrapping a blanket around him and just sitting with him at her dining table. “M'husband is out right now tendin' t'our fields, but when he gets back we'll take you right into town." Justin nodded vacantly, he felt so unreal and empty, like nothing that had happened was true.

“Why don't ya start with yer name?" The old badger asked. Justin nodded, her voice wasn't quite the same as Quindon folks, but that didn't mean much. His mum had always been complaining about how much people moved around 'these days'.

He wiped at his nose, sniffing and pulling the blanket tighter. “My name is Justin, J-Justin Roman. They, they took us and… made us walk and they were…" He held his head back, worried he was going to cry again.

“Hush." The badger said, sliding a mug of lemon tea toward him. “Here. Just, you just breathe Justin. It'll be alright."

But it won't. He thought despondently.

“Where are we?" He whimpered, eyeing the mug of tea.

“Well, this's me home, been here nigh on thirty years I reckon." The badger said, glancing around, clearly eager to distract him. “But as fer where… well, depends who y'ask. Some'll say Vellem, some say Kalli. Truth be, we're right on the darn border." She shook her head as if exasperated. “Bantam and Firebrand are each about a day's travel from 'ere, so it don't matter none to me."

The Vellem and Kallinger border. He thought. That don't mean we're too far from home.

“How far to Quindon Province ma'am?" He asked, his voice coming out raspy and tinny, like he had a thick head cold. “I'm from north'a there, right in the shadow'a Firespine Ridge." His mother had always told folk that. The badger's face sobered, and Justin's heart fell.

“Oh, Quindon aye?" She winced. “We're about three days hard ride from the edge, and about three times that t'Trident. I'm sorry lad." Justin closed his eyes.

Where were we going?

“They still have my mother." He whispered. The badger hesitated awkwardly.

“Well, don't you fuss too much." She said uncomfortably. “Soon as Robert is back here, we'll make the trip to Bantam and get you seen to by some good men of the law."

Fletcher inhaled deeply, the curtain before him, stomach in tight twists. He could hear them on the other side, clapping and aww-ing at Thume and the twin's actions. Lyric was getting better by the day, but he still wasn't quite well enough to retake his place as company jester. At that moment, the leopards must have done something particularly impressive, because Fletcher heard a few people scream and laugh. Finally, the show concluded and applause broke out, people putting their fingers in their maws and whistling, others even howling.

“Here we go." Fletcher said, pulling his hooded mask up and over his face.

His outfit had been ready a few days earlier, but Meridian had wanted to get a couple more practices in with him before he went on stage. Tonight was the troupe's last performance in Vellem Province, and the day after next they'd move on south, heading towards Firebrand and the Kallinger Province. Miss Meridian had suggested Fletcher and Ursula trial a real performance during the show, since the circus hype had died down a bit, and the audience was beginning to dwindle.

“We can afford a few slip-ups. Not like we need to attract anymore people for the next night." And then she'd laughed. The two had accepted nervously, though Fletcher still didn't feel ready and doubted he ever would.

He couldn't deny the outfit was outstanding. Meridian had slaved over it for weeks, and it fit perfectly on his slender form. Made mostly of cloth, with the occasional strap of leather for support, it was predominantly brown, mixed in with muted reds and oranges. You couldn't see much of Fletcher's natural coat when he wore it, but it did match his fur colouration. The chest had the most detail, covered with a diagonal checker pattern, again mostly red and brown with a sprinkle of gold mixed in. On stage the suit would catch the light, glistening resplendently under a hot spot-lamp. The top-layer jacket was snug, and it carried two bandoliers stocked with his paw-loaded rifle rounds; tracers with extra kick. The pants were a little less ostentatious, but still his waist was ringed with loose leather straps and buckles, the trousers as a whole a dark dusty greyish-brown, his boots matching the coat. His paws were slipped into expertly tailored leather gloves, with his two trigger fingers exposed on each paw. The hood was patterned like his shirt, conforming to his head-shape with holes for his plugged ears to poke out. One eye was crossed over with a strap, part of his 'circus backstory', while the other was hidden behind a scarlet glass monocle, which to Fletcher's surprise he could see near-perfectly out of. Around his jaw a bronze metal visage of bared teeth had been wrought; that part custom ordered from an artisanal blacksmith in Bantam. On top of all that he had a slim, olive-green cape hung from one shoulder, reaching almost to his hips.

He thought he looked incredible, and wearing it all now, he felt strong and confident. He wasn't Fletcher Fulbright, hobby-marksman and broken child of Gallentry's Blood Iron Baron, he was Kalico Black, a man left for dead after a vicious gunfight with a corrupt crime lord in the Ablish Province. Meridian had found him there, nursed him back to health, and given him a job shooting for her - to pay her back for the help. He was searching for redemption, and had in turn vowed never to kill again.

It was silly, and corny, and most of the audience probably realised it was a stunt-story, but the play acting was fun.

He had a nickel-plated revolver tucked into a black leather holster at each hip too – Lyric had been teaching him how to shoot with them, though they wouldn't come into play during the show just yet. They were just costume, though they did work.

“And now, something special, something unique! Something new!" Miss Meridian's voice cried from the other side of the curtain. Holding the audience captive, she gave them Kalico's backstory, warning them that he was once a very dangerous wolf. She went on to finish with, “Please remain seated and keep hold of your pups and kits – Kalico was once a merciless killer, and while he's on the right path now, this isn't a trick folks - these are real bullets!" She paused. “AND SO NOW! WITHOUT FURTHER ADIEU!" Meridian cried, no doubt raising her claws theatrically.

A smoke bomb went off and she exited the stage covertly, as Fletcher stepped forward.

The crowd gasped as the smoke cleared, and he stood there, surveying them, rifle held loosely in one hand. He walked forward a little, dropping to a squat and glaring at each one of the members at the front as practiced. They took it in with captivated silence, his mask, his outfit, the fact he was holding a real gun loaded with real bullets.

Then it began.

Thume came out behind him, tossing two ceramic plates over him and above the crowd. Fletcher snapped into a kneeling stance and popped both with ease, standing and twirling his rifle around one paw, shooting down plates just as they left Thume's hands, one-two-three-four. He popped open the casing and slid in another six rounds, pulling the gun up to fire as the jester-goat threw the plates straight for his head. The crowd gasped and screamed as the gunshots went off, deafening in the confined space of the tent. Fletcher shot three more plates out of the air, then reloaded again, slipping in a bullet covertly marked with yellow tape. Thume ran about, making an act of gathering more plates. Fletcher walked back and forth, shaking his head. The crowd leaned in as he pulled up the rifle to aim at Thume, held it for suspense, and then let off a shot straight at the goat. The blank was loud and convincing, and Thume's expert tumble over convinced the crowd enough that some of them stood up in shock. Thume, now acting dead, lay still, while Fletcher walked to the front of the stage and held his arms aloft, spinning the rifle and slipping it into the holster across his back. Meridian had explained people might scream, but they stood stunned mostly, heads snapping between from the 'corpse' to Kalico, and then back again repeatedly, jaws hanging open. As Miss Meridian had told him, they knew logically that they hadn't just witnessed murder; they knew this was a show, but that part of their mind took a back seat during the event. It was still there of course – that was why nobody had run screaming from the tent, but it was quiet enough the crowd was earnestly shocked. In other words, they allowed themselves to be scared by it, a shared kind of pretend.

In one swift movement Thume rolled to his feet, grabbed three plates and hurled them at 'Kalico'. Fletcher felt good, he felt confident. So confident, that he drew one of the revolvers instead of the rifle, twisting at the hip and slamming the hammer back, popping two of the three plates. He kicked himself as the one he was too slow for sailed past him, hitting the stage floor and skidding across it. The audience held, waiting.

Do something. Fletcher thought, blushing beneath his mask, and he turned on his heel, walking slowly and deliberately to the fallen plate, pulling the hammer back with one thumb, and shooting it 'dead' on the ground. The attempt at humour paid off, and the tension of the act was broken as the audience began laughing at the silliness, telling one another in hushed giggles how they 'always knew it was a trick', as well as recounting stories they'd supposedly heard about Kalico Black's past misdeeds. Fletcher spun the revolver around his paw and slid it into a holster, right as the light was redirected to the centre stage, where Ursula came stepping out.

Fletcher skulked back behind the curtain, but not before getting a glimpse of the leotard-clad sergal, twisting over backward in an astounding display of flexibility. Meridian had a great feel for the rhythm that the circus needed – after the excitement of the Kalico Black performance, the crowd needed a more sombre, calm kind of show. Ursula's impressive but serene contortions would be a perfect palate cleanser.

Backstage now, Fletcher tore his hood off, panting, heart racing a mile a minute. He graciously accepted a canteen of water that Clementine offered, chugging it down as he listened to the crowd be slowly hypnotised by Ursula's increasingly complex twisting.

He fell into a chair and stayed there, still in costume, exhausted until the show ended. As the feral ravens exploded out the tent and the audience was left alone, the crew members all waited in silence. The crowd outside filtered out, and eventually Thume gave them the all-clear.

“Fletcher Fulbright!" Miss Meridian's shrill voice called, a hint of disapproval in her tone as she approached him.

“Am I in trouble?" He asked with a childishly mischievous grin, the raven doing her best attempt at rolling her eyes.

“You damned idiot pup!" She exclaimed, playfully slapping the back of his head. “We have a strict rule about improvisation on stage! It is not to happen!" She shook her beak. “Tsk, pulling out your damned revolver like some maverick, I think I made your persona too good – give me back my obedient little coyote." Fletcher waited a beat.

“Buuuut?" He asked, raising an eyebrow. There was a hint of a but to her tone, they both knew it. Meridian sighed.

“You saved it brilliantly, I hate to admit I was wrong but… It is the puzzle piece your act was missing. That laugh gag they get from seeing the plate finished off worked, you lucky, lucky dog." She levelled her gaze, body relaxing. “Well done."

“Thank you." He said, standing. “I'm sorry, it just felt like the right thing to do at the time."

“And it was!" A playfully feminine voice added, as Narem stepped closer. Fletcher felt his face flush, looking at his feet. The two hadn't spoken since Narem stormed off so Fletcher could talk with Lyric. It didn't matter that Lyric had turned him down, in the leopard's eyes Fletcher had chosen the jackal over him.

Fair enough. He thought. That had been two weeks ago, but though the awkwardness had mostly dissolved with Lyric, it had stubbornly refused to budge when it came to Narem Raiji. Bastard feelings.

“You did a very good show of it Fletcher." Narem said with a slight bow. “I caught a little by peeking, but from what Thume told me it was spectacular." The peeking line earned the cat a side-eye from Meridian, and he scurried away quickly.

“Oh wow!" Ursula said, finding him a few minutes later, as Fletcher was stripping his jacket off. The tall sergal pulled him into a hug, which he allowed. As the two newest members they both had a shared experience, and since Narem had been avoiding him Fletcher had been hanging out with Ursula when he was free, and she wasn't busy with Nobu. “You did so well Fletcher!" Her voice was soft and gentle, and he felt like she genuinely meant what she said.

“You too! I was so nervous." He laughed. “Your outfit was so amazing, and when I was leaving I saw you twist over backwards… I didn't know it was like… well like that." He said. Ursula grinned. They chatted a little longer, until Nobu came along and embraced her, congratulating Fletcher before the two shared a short kiss, departing.

Fletcher couldn't help feel a little chagrined at how easily she'd found a partner. They'd both gotten mixed up in romance, but he'd make the wrong call in whom to like, and now he had nobody.

Idiot.

He searched the backstage for Lyric, but as usual the jackal was nowhere to be found. When pressured, Raime admitted he had seen the ornery dog shuffling towards his tent, and so Fletcher said goodnight to the rest and went to find him. He wanted to ask if Lyric had seen the act, and if he approved of the revolver shot – the jackal had been teaching him, he might have more advice.

True to Raime's own words he wasn't a liar – when Fletcher approached Lyric's quiet tent he found an oil lamp lit, the jackal furiously stuffing supplies into a satchel. He was walking on his own now, wounds healed enough that he was only limping slightly as he went. His left arm was still weak, but by his own admission he only needed one good paw to shoot. He was wearing his usual leather jacket, a pair of goggles resting on the top of his head.

“Uh, what are you doing?" Fletcher asked hesitantly.

“Packing." Lyric replied, grabbing his slide-action and checking the clip, before slipping the gun into his shoulder holster.

“I thought you said you'd wait until you were well enough to go after the cult." Fletcher asked, rounding the jackal. Lyric's ears fell.

“That's still a while away boy, and yeah calm your horses I ain't goin' after those psychos just right now." He grunted, pulling the top of the satchel tight. “I've got different psychos to parlay with."

“So where are you going Lyric?" Fletcher asked. The jackal had an annoying penchant for only ever giving answers that explicitly conformed to the question. “I need some fucking context!" Panic was starting to rise in Fletcher's chest. Things had been good; he wasn't with Lyric but they'd been spending lots of time together during shooting practice. They'd been getting close, and he was starting to feel like maybe he knew the jackal, instead of just crushing on an abstract concept of him.

He can't leave now, last time he did he nearly came back dead.

Fletcher's words gave Lyric pause, and he turned back to meet his disapproving eyes, a slight smirk on his maw. “Oh?" He asked. With a sigh he grabbed a nearby scrunched up newspaper, tossing it to Fletcher, who caught it reflexively. “Fourth page in, halfway down. I thought it was stupid of your old goat to keep buying these things, they're usually just local Baron propaganda, but… well you'll see."

“What…" Fletcher muttered, flicking through to the page Lyric said. He skimmed it, eyes quickly finding the headline in question:

11 y.o. lion boy escapes gruesome death-cult, after family kidnapped

     “Oh." Fletcher said, reading the story. It didn't say much more than the headline; a young lion cub's family had been kidnapped by bone-wearing lunatics, and he'd managed to get away. The law in Bantam were keeping him safe until they could decide what to do. When he looked up Lyric was standing.

     “I have to go speak to him Fletch. It's the Children of Nihil, has to be. He might know something." The fervour in the jackal's eyes was unsettling, and for a moment Fletcher wondered if he even remembered being shot nearly to death a few weeks earlier.

“That's crazy." He said, dumbfounded. “What is some kid even gonna tell you?"

“Listen." Lyric said intensely, coming closer and grabbing hold of Fletcher's arm. “He escaped some kinda prison caravan, y'hear? They're goin' about kidnappin' victims for their mind-fuck rituals. Which means they might still be in the area. If I can find 'em, I can make 'em tell me where to find the Sultan's Curse, without needin' to go all the way to Blood Mesa. Because if I walk in there… it ain't gonna be pretty."

“Lyric…"

“It's a lead too good to pass on boy. I don't expect you t'understand." Fletcher winced at that. “But this is all that matters. You fellas've got Thume playing clown anyhow, ya won't miss me gone a few days. I'll catch up with the resta ya in Firebrand." Fletcher didn't believe him, and he bit his tongue as the jackal clapped him on the back, walking away.

“You're going now?" Fletcher exclaimed.

“Yup. I can be in Bantam at the crack'a dawn. I can spend the time thinkin' how to convince the law ta let me chat to their lad." He chuckled. “You give Miss Meridian my regards aye, I'll see you in a bit." Fletcher swallowed, anxiety building.