Disclaimer (such as it is): I wrote this in an effort to prove the
secondary characters were still around wrecking havoc before everyone's
favorite flaming-haired consumptive stole the show. *looks around warily* I
think I just put myself out in the open for the rabid Satine-worshippers to
attack, didn't I? At any rate, we all know I don't own anything, right?
1892
He hardly noticed the man making his way over, although in hindsight he realized it was rather difficult not to notice him. His hunched form was liberally draped with tarnished ankhs that swung and rattled as he ambled across the dim café, his hair was covered with an outlandish striped bowler, and the beard flowing over his tie was almost entirely gray. The eyes that blinked at him eagerly through a pair of pince-nez, however, were incongruously youthful. "You're the Argentinean dancer from the Nouveau Cirque, aren't you?" he demanded. "The one who performs on hot coals?"
The addressed, a younger man whose harsh, unshaven face was dominated by eyes that glowed like a pair of live embers, downed the contents of his glass before answering, "I might be," as if his distinct accent wasn't evidence enough.
The wrinkled face split into a smile. "I thought you were. I've been by before, with a friend of mine who likes to do sketches there. He also favors the Cirque Fernando-- you used to be there, correct?"
"I no longer perform there," came the curt reply.
"The friend I mentioned has done a few sketches of you," the man continued obliviously. "He's been meaning to do more, but it's been some time since he last saw you at the circus."
An unconcerned shrug. "I perform there less often; I've been finding work as an actor."
"Theatre, eh? Excellent. I thought you might be one of us." Grinning, the man seated himself and unselfconsciously launched into a digression. "I can tell these things, see. You've got the new ideals written all over you-in phosphorescent paint, figuratively speaking, seeing as they managed to draw me over here even in the dark. Not that I'm saying you've got paint all over yourself, you know, but that you've an air about you. Aura, that's it; you have the aura of a tortured yet idealistic soul and it burns like a beacon of revolution. You know what I mean, don't you?"
The Argentinean fixed him with a look that clearly proclaimed he thought the man was an absolute lunatic. "Of course."
The older man leaped from his seat with the energy of an overgrown cricket. "Brilliant!" he crowed. "You'll have to come meet my friend. Chances are he'll try to rope you into sitting for him, but he's not a bad sort and he'll be ecstatic to meet you-- ah, whatever your name is?"
"They call me the Argentinean," he said, rising. "That's enough."
The man shrugged cheerfully, as if accustomed to such dispositions. No doubt he believed a tormented soul was entitled to its defenses. "Fine, then. Let's go."
"And you are?" the Argentinean pressed.
"The Doctor," came the answer. "That's enough."
1892
He hardly noticed the man making his way over, although in hindsight he realized it was rather difficult not to notice him. His hunched form was liberally draped with tarnished ankhs that swung and rattled as he ambled across the dim café, his hair was covered with an outlandish striped bowler, and the beard flowing over his tie was almost entirely gray. The eyes that blinked at him eagerly through a pair of pince-nez, however, were incongruously youthful. "You're the Argentinean dancer from the Nouveau Cirque, aren't you?" he demanded. "The one who performs on hot coals?"
The addressed, a younger man whose harsh, unshaven face was dominated by eyes that glowed like a pair of live embers, downed the contents of his glass before answering, "I might be," as if his distinct accent wasn't evidence enough.
The wrinkled face split into a smile. "I thought you were. I've been by before, with a friend of mine who likes to do sketches there. He also favors the Cirque Fernando-- you used to be there, correct?"
"I no longer perform there," came the curt reply.
"The friend I mentioned has done a few sketches of you," the man continued obliviously. "He's been meaning to do more, but it's been some time since he last saw you at the circus."
An unconcerned shrug. "I perform there less often; I've been finding work as an actor."
"Theatre, eh? Excellent. I thought you might be one of us." Grinning, the man seated himself and unselfconsciously launched into a digression. "I can tell these things, see. You've got the new ideals written all over you-in phosphorescent paint, figuratively speaking, seeing as they managed to draw me over here even in the dark. Not that I'm saying you've got paint all over yourself, you know, but that you've an air about you. Aura, that's it; you have the aura of a tortured yet idealistic soul and it burns like a beacon of revolution. You know what I mean, don't you?"
The Argentinean fixed him with a look that clearly proclaimed he thought the man was an absolute lunatic. "Of course."
The older man leaped from his seat with the energy of an overgrown cricket. "Brilliant!" he crowed. "You'll have to come meet my friend. Chances are he'll try to rope you into sitting for him, but he's not a bad sort and he'll be ecstatic to meet you-- ah, whatever your name is?"
"They call me the Argentinean," he said, rising. "That's enough."
The man shrugged cheerfully, as if accustomed to such dispositions. No doubt he believed a tormented soul was entitled to its defenses. "Fine, then. Let's go."
"And you are?" the Argentinean pressed.
"The Doctor," came the answer. "That's enough."