A/N: This is an AU plot bunny that has found a new home. =) Zy hasn't begun publishing yet, to my knowledge, but when they do I'll let you know.
I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.
"Just what are you doing, Igor?"
Chasing wild geese, isn't that obvious? What else would I be doing in this place? I haven't been to a circus since I was ten or something.
That's not what she means, though. I can almost see the face she would have made, if she'd been here: that look she got when she'd caught me sneaking evidence off from the crime scene. Michelle always thought I obsessed with my cases. "Work stays at work" she used to say. It was a sensible request, so I agreed with her – every time. We had those discussions on a regular basis, almost like a ritual. She'd speak about her sister and her kids, about how nice it seemed with family life, house, garden – I agreed. I agreed to all of it. I did want kids and house and garden. Honest to God, I did. We were going to have that life.
Then she'd catch me up at night, poring over case files, and she'd give me that look. Like she had known all along but still hoped enough to feel disappointed. Just what are you doing, Igor?
"Mr Neuhaus, sir? He's next."
My current "client" is in the seat next to me. Calling him that is a stretch but I don't know what else to call him. It's not like he can pay me. I said I don't work for free and he said he would fix me everything I needed for the investigation as long as I helped him; I said that's not how it works and then he turned out to be human glue. Not the cheap glue stick kind that loses grip when it dries and not the super glue they use in archaeological reconstructions. Yukio Okumura is the kind of glue that gets on everything and just sticks.
He'd probably make a fine sleuth. And while I don't want to think it, that is probably because he reminds me of myself. He reminds me a little too much of myself: that just might be the reason I agreed to chasing this goose.
Yukio showed up at my door about a month ago. I first thought he was a girl, and not just because he's a slender little Asian with hair down to his shoulders: he actually did come disguised as a girl, just in case "he" was watching.
Trust a circus kid to know how to capture one's interest.
"Ladies and gentlemen! For our next performance, make sure you all hold tightly on to your breaths, for he is the greatest magician on the continent. With us tonight: the man, the legend – Mephisto!"
Even in the dim light and the haze of popcorn smell, I can see how Yukio draws a deep breath and mentally checks himself over to make sure he's not giving himself away by fidgeting. He applauds, like the rest of the audience, but his face is a still mask. He picked a Muslim girl disguise this time – don't ask me how he gets all his get-ups, or why they all seem to be girl disguises. The kid's a paranoid, I could tell from the start. All the more reason for me to take this whole story with a handful of salt. His brother went missing, that's why he came to me. It's all and well: lots of people go missing and it's guys like me that get hired to find them. Then he told me he and his brother are trapeze acrobats – the Flying Okumuras – and my doubts start waving flags. By the time he tells me his brother disappeard from the circus at the same time as this famous magician guy he was assisting, I've basically dropped the case. Circus folk come and go, that's the way of things. They travel a while with one circus, then move to another.
Try telling that to a kid that's so much like myself.
"Not your brother, I'm guessing?" The sparkly guy that carries the caged parrot up to Mephisto is the most un-Asian assistant I've seen: Spaniard – maybe Italian. I already know it's not who we're looking for. Yukio told me he had been to Mephisto's new circus already, asking for his brother. The manager had told him Mephisto had arrived alone.
Mephisto himself, well… It's my first time seeing him, and first impression is he's exactly where he should be. He loves the stage, from the toes of his pointy boots to the shiny tip of his top hat. He loves creating illusions that leaves an audience agape in wonder.
"Flamboyance just got a lexical definition."
"He's… different." Yukio's well-painted eyebrows draw together, and I have a feeling he's not talking about the assistant. "Mephisto didn't have long hair when he was with us. And his face…"
"Hair grows."
But Yukio shakes his shawled head: a small, curt motion, like when you shake a Christmas gift to see if it rattles or if it's another pair of socks.
"Hair doesn't grow that much in two months. He might be wearing a wig…" He might, but that wasn't what Yukio was thinking. Like I said: a paranoid, and a worrywart. The valve between reason and imagination isn't entirely tight on that one.
Mephisto – whatever his real name is – is the reason Yukio disguises himself so thoroughly. He wouldn't say what he was afraid would happen, just mumble some superstitious circus mumbo-jumbo about his tricks being out of this world and "who knows what he can do". So far, the only thing I've seen him do is to magic the parrot out of its cage and make it come flying out of his top hat. It's well orchestrated tricks, I can't say I know how he does it, but he will have to do something more extraordinary than that to deserve being called the greatest magician on the continent.
"When he asks for a volunteer, raise your hand and stand up."
"Say what now?"
"When he asks for a volunteer", Yukio murmurs, eyes fixed on the performance. "I know you don't believe me when I say something isn't right with Mephisto, Mr Neuhaus. But if you meet him face to face you'll know what I mean."
"No offence, kid, but to me all circus folk seem fishy one way or the other."
Yukio just smiles, not even looking at me. "I understand that is the impression I've given. After tonight I hope you understand why."
The mouth on that kid. And the worst thing is, I can't think of a single good comeback line. I'm supposed to be the adult here, and he just calmly pats my ignorant head. It's on my tongue to say I could see why his brother would ditch him, with that attitude, but I keep my mouth shut. For one, I have dignity, and that kind of retort is just childish; second, this kid's nerves are frayed like an old coat lining. He keeps a cool face about it but I wouldn't have made it as a sleuth if I couldn't see beyond what people want you to see. He's worried sick about his brother, and the steam has to come out somewhere.
In the end, I just grunt. He can take that as whatever response he likes.
"For my next performance, I will require a volunteer." Our stage magician discards his cape with a dramatic flourish to go with his dramatic voice. "I will require someone brave of heart to step down into the ring and onto the Wheel of Death." The glittery assistant yanks off the red cloth from a stand and reveals a painted wooden wheel with straps for wrists, ankles, and waist. "Who will it be? What daring man or woman will join me for this legendary test of skill and valour?"
I straighten out my suit and rise from the seat. Skill and valour? I know how this is done. The magician slips the knife into his sleeve and an identical knife springs up from the board itself. A simple trick.
I'm the first to rise, apparently, and the spotlight finds me after a few dramatical sweeps over the audience.
"Splendid! Come down, sir, come down! A round of applause for our brave volunteer!"
The whole tent thunders with applause. A stage hand in bright uniform waves me the right way, round the supporting beams and out into the ring. Compared to the dim stands the light out here is intense. I can already feel that I'll need to toss this shirt in the laundry tonight, as well as have a swig of allergy medicine. The horses performed a good half hour ago but that's still too fresh for my mucous membranes.
"Come forward, sir! What's the name of our honorary performer?"
The magician thrusts a silvery microphone in my face. I can't quite hear his voice, it's… far away? No. I hear what he says, it's just… He's… What is…?
"Your name, sir?"
"Igor", I reply at long last.
The magician smiles and turns to address the audience again. "Ladies and gentlemen, tonight Igor will strap himself to the wheel…"
I don't quite listen to what he says. He's making big gestures with his long, purple-suited arms and he makes me think of those cellar spiders that wobble their tiny bodies around on those long, wiry limbs. It's only this close up that you notice how he's a little bit too tall and a little bit too thin, and how everything about him is just that little bit not right. He's…
"Your suit jacket, sir", the stage assistant says, and from the tone of it I don't think it's the first or second time he's asked me.
I shrug the jacket off and hand it to him, and he goes on to fold it and put it on a small, three-legged stool. He then motions me to the wheel. It, too, is bigger when you come close. The assistant shows me where to stand and how to put my arms up. The straps are sturdy leather, and he fastens them tightly – the less I move the better, or something like that (I don't quite catch what he's saying either).
It's surreal, the moment I see them. The holes, pockmarking the wood all around me. Then a drum roll kicks up, and the world starts turning on its hinges. I tense reflexively in the straps that hold me up as my weight shifts onto them. I see Mephisto standing before me, five metres away or so, with a whole set of throwing knives gleaming between his fingers.
He's not right. He's like a figure drawn by an artist who has a basic grasp on human anatomy but nothing more.
The first knife thunks into the wood just below my left wrist. That is not a trick. An icy fist rushes into my stomach as blood rushes into my head. I'm hanging upside down and there's a man throwing knives at me and it's not a trick.
Run.
No. Keep your head clear, Igor. It's not like I could run, and it's not like it would help. Moving is the worst thing I can do right now. Though my nerves flinch and curl with every thunk of metal burying in wood I keep a lid on the panic. Mephisto is a professional. He has done this hundreds of times. He practises this every day. There is absolutely no risk that he will miss a throw.
It burns. I scream before I realise what's happened, but the motion makes the muscles tighten in my abdomen and I feel it: the knife. The knife buried in my abdomen, just below the lowest rib. Like a handle. Like a… The hilt heaves and bobs and only then do I realise I'm hyperventilating. Time unfreezes and the shock with it.
"HELP! Callam…!" My voice trips over itself, garbled, panicked. "Call an ambulance! I'm bleeding! Help!"
I don't know if anybody hears. I don't know if anybody calls that ambulance. The lights are insanely bright, I can't see the audience, I can't see anything except the ripples of my breath and the knife bobbing in my gut, I can't- A shadow, a shape, approaching me. I can see Mephisto. I can see everything that's wrong about him, all the little misdrawn lines trying to hide in the spotlight's shadows; I press backwards into the board, breathing whimpers through my nose. He's perfectly calm. He just put a knife in my gut and he's perfectly calm.
His white-gloved hand taps the hilt, then closes around it, then pulls. Red lightning streaks the back of my eyes and my body is a barbed knot of pain. I scream, I might be crying, and he continues to pull. The knife is out but he continues to… pull? There's a tickling feeling, not painful at all, but what is he doing?
…I must've lost it. My brain: at some point it fried from pain and I'm hallucinating. I must be.
He's pulling a string of handkerchiefs out of the wound. Knotted, brightly coloured handkerchiefs. The last one comes out and through the tear in the shirt I see no wound, no blood.
This is insane. I'm insane. Something is insane because this is impossible. The assistant unstraps me, but I'm not sure I can walk. Mephisto is taking bows, shimmering like a mirage in the spotlight. The whole tent thunders with applause.
What the hell kind of goose are we chasing?