Notes: Lack of free time and inspiration, besides working on other projects, have rendered this trickier to write than it already is, and the more I look at the writing, the less I like it. I hope I am not letting anybody down.

Little footnote: I probably haven't said this, but "Na'am" means "yes" in Arabic, and "Lha" means "no". And I actually don't know any Arabic besides that, or I'd be using it.

Mimicking humans was awfully complicated even if it weren't for their internal peculiarities. After all, they had judging gazes. If he openly mimicked them, it could lead to hundreds of different outcomes, each more unpleasant than the other. So most of the times he had to rely on memory. Gogo would focus on them for a while, as discreetly as he managed, then try to mimic later on when he was alone. This method was more stressful than enjoyable, and he feared he could be making mistakes. At least, when he mimicked by memory, he could no longer feel the person's emotions and personality. Only physicality stood in this lack of synch.

It's a choice, but it's not how he wants to keep practicing. That's when he decides to leave at night time.

At least his parents were not back yet; it would be a nuisance, moreso if he had to answer questions that they might not even ask.

At night, there were locations within the city that were abundant in pedestalled oil lamps, such as the way from the docks to the inn. Other locations, not so much, which allowed many shadowy places to exist where light didn't. A merchant city at night wasn't the safest to be, but in most residential streets it was no different than during day. Unlucky people could well be at the wrong place at the wrong time though.

Gogo hardly left at night in all his life, but if the shadows would allow him to mimic peacefully, and he hoped they did, he was willing to risk it.

Nighttime was kind of funny. The older folk, the people who were cautious and the people who tired themselves out during daytime called it a day and headed inside. Meanwhile, most others with a lot of energy left stayed out in town until they decided to go back home, which could take the entire night for some.

It was an other sort of life.

Gogo didn't feel much comfortable with it, because he knew he could look like a threat in a shady night, with so many cloths and drapes hiding nearly all of him, despite being a rather short youth. He wouldn't like getting into trouble.

With his newfound control, he did have a chance. When people noticed his movements, he could still immediately and they could think the movement a mere trick of their minds. And thus the most he ever felt was wariness in those few attempts.

The question that popped up in his head most, despite the fact he'd only started, was 'when will I be good enough that I may come out of hiding?'

One thing that he had to learn was to completely ignore the emotions that were poured into him when he focused. What use did they have but mess him up further? Normal mimes don't need that, and neither does he.

It was difficult sometimes, separating the feelings from the actions. These humans' personalities were far stronger than his own. They were imposed easily onto him. Of course, it is much easier to swing a fist when he is actually angry, or walk lazily when he is tired and gets the thought of having plenty of work to do the next day, but those aren't his case, a mime is there to imitate and imitate well, not to be what he is mimicking.

It has broken his concentration enough to pile up his frustration. Gogo wonders if investing some effort in self-awareness would help, despite his own self being weaker.

Weakness wouldn't push him back, he wouldn't allow it.

For this he practiced in order to make his body able to do anything. Flexibility was supposed to be essential. He focused on himself, as a person instead of a nobody, as this is what he must- if he ever needed to start being himself again, while mimicking, it was on himself that he should focus.

And what a way to learn better about oneself.

One day had given its way to a moonless night. To the more traditional Nikeans, this was a sign they should tuck back into their houses earlier, as though a divinity had wrapped a blanket around the sky and was requesting the citizens to sleep underneath it.

This tended to leave the night for the younger populace, and Gogo would be no exception to that.

His mimicking is toned down, he sits on a deck, just out of light's reach, to not appear too threatening. The young adults are so lively, and he spends more time confused at what focusing gives him than anything else.

But of course, these younger people are passionate in much of what they do, and Gogo winds up reacting as strongly as them- his face flares, his teeth grind, his eyebrows furrow and wag, his heart races, h-... He's pretty sure his body is not supposed to do that. Not like this. But he's thankful that the heat wanes. The difference in blood flows make him dizzy, as the night drags on and more events happen within the vicinity of Nikeah's Port District.

Such waves of strong emotions tire him out quickly, and it soon makes no sense to keep sitting by the sea. Gogo decides to leave and tread along shadows and corners back home. A ghost, perhaps, walking the streets.

Someone else is looking at him, and they are alone. The youth's steps are quick as he heads on, to make it clear he won't mean harm.

It's then that arms wring quick around him, searching and pulling-

He should have been expecting it, how careless- he'd been worrying about looking threatening and forgot there were others that would look past that and prey him instead.

His heart felt a burst, and his mind lost control at this point.

Everything was a dark blur; Gogo teared himself off with arms tense and not his own, then spun, or turned mayhaps. Was that a mirror in front of him?- It wasn't, of course not- but it felt-

The person stood still, wary. His hand hurt. His stomach felt curling.

More movement- Gogo couldn't know who was doing it first, but they moved in complete, undelayed synch- it was probably the robber doing the actions because his own brain felt pretty much dead. It really looked like there was a mirror between them and it was a ridiculous idea.

He punched the air, without meaning to, it wound up making their fists hit. As pain blossomed up his arm, the individual ran off as stealthily as they had lunged.

That was. Ohh. He felt- sick. To his head.

What sort of mimicking was that, even- one in which he copied the exact same actions at the exact same time? That couldn't be something that existed. But he did that didn't he?

Shivers. There was no grand reason why, but this made him feel more like a demon than anything else before.

Only later did Gogo give it thought- he'd saved himself this way. Like the Mu he had copied and bitten, but with a human, this time. This could mean that this ability was of use. Much use.

He is too young for this. But it's too late now.

He finds he doesn't mind.

Gogo can manage a woman's voice. The high-pitch of young girls, which used to hurt his throat, did nothing but tickle some now. He can manage a man's voice too. Deep, rumbling ones, like the nearest clockworker's. The boy wasn't able to reach those extremes before all of this, as his voice simply stood in the very middle of them and couldn't reach far to either side.

So now, more than before, he could pass up as someone of either gender without much effort. His many drapes and cloths for hiding were a helping reason towards that end, but he guessed it would be difficult even if he wore normal clothes.

Unlike the night alleys, the coverages of his markings were something he would not come out of hiding from.

A fog-tipped morning called him out to the town, where he could, if he willed, have breakfast later, not that his schedule would be too happy with it.

He is an acquaintance of the café's attendant, one of the few people he may trust.

So he needs not be tense when he enters the empty place, which may have just opened for all he knows, and sits down to watch some of the movement outside.

Nikeah used to be far different, his grandfather said. Once in the past, the people here were more intolerant and closed up, but the town's ever-working port and ships and the grand income of foreigners made them open up to become the Nikeans that inhabit the current times.

Everyone was so free-willed. He couldn't even imagine it otherwise.

"Oh! There's my studious boy! How're you doing, little Gogo?" the attendant chirped once he set his eyes upon the boy.

"Fine." It sounded a bit too monotone for one who was fine. That wasn't on purpose.

"And where you been at? You usually come around more often when your parents aren't around!"

Gogo looks at him, at the genuine smile. He can't lie, wouldn't want to.

"I'm trying to become good at mimics. I have been practicing, out."

"Practicing? Any luck with that? Never heard of anyone training up for that, lha." With a cloth, the man started rubbing one of the tables' surface clean.

"It's difficult, but I'm managing." he nodded his head.

"Care to show me that? When you're happy with something, it's because it's good!" Harid commented playfully.

The boy tensed up, pondering the request he was given. Every option within his reach seemed bad in one way or another. After a long while of staring, the boy simply let out a small bark.

"That all you got?" he wasn't scrutinizing, he was chuckling.

A realistic "baaaa" this time. Then, a womanly voice, but this certainly wasn't much coming from him in the first place.

Gogo knew this wouldn't be convincing enough.

"Are you only in for voices?"

"No." he swallowed, "Move."

Harid gave a large step to his side, and Gogo mirrored it without focusing. He let his expectant eyes do the work of leading the man to move around more.

One after the other, a intrigued Harid tried to test the boy through more complex movements; spinning an arm, lifting a leg, making faces, all the three at once. He hardly felt out of balance.

"Haha! You're not bad at this. Say, what will you do with it?"

"I pretend to make it my job."

A double thumbs up was the most heartwarming gesture he's received in a long while.

His parents had returned. He briefly wondered why they took so long, but his dad's grumbling about the Emperor's pushiness ought to answer it. Gogo had never seen Vector for himself, and rumours place it as a big, ugly and unusual metal-city with too many mysteries. And that the people there are becoming far too ethnocentric for most of the foreigners to feel comfortable. It was unlike Jidoor's stereotypical stuck-up front. Vector was too imposing. Jidoorians had begun feeling offended when compared to them.

As they are back, he quietens. The sensation of freedom to act abnormally wasn't embracing him as it did.

It's easy, now, for him; when he sees a crow, the mime hisses like a cobra, and makes it run away promptly.

He should be amused by that. He would, normally. But it's as though he has lost some inclination towards emotions. No longer smiles at his own achievements, no longer frowns at bad news.

And, worst of all, he isn't as worried about it as he felt he should be.

All this focus on mimicking caused the growing boy to nearly forget his other option, that of a chemist. He would become rusty quickly if he did not get back to it; potions were delicate stuff.

Flowers were essential to potion-brewing. Thankfully, their shapes and colours could be quite memorable, so he had little trouble collecting them. Since these 'special' plants grew fairly easily, even in some inhospitable locations, for no yet known reason, shopkeepers felt tranquil about putting high amounts in stock.

Some mushrooms were poisonous. Marandan researchers put it at around 78% non-poisonous species to 14% poisonous to 8% outwardly deadly to humans. Gogo had to know about this, at least to some extent, since mushrooms were important to some chemists. A certain genus could be used to make a Berserk potion, but it was illegal to sell those.

The most useful, though, was a cleaning mixture, which could cleanse his many cloths without great side effects if used with reasonable amounts of water. Gogo was just thankful the plants here were lively and tended to flourish several times a year. Which made the Nikean jungles and mangroves the only ones with hummingbirds bigger than a monk fist.

He's happy to know his parents at least used up all of his acid this time, which strengthens his confidence on the dangerous chemistry.

The boy always tests the potions meant for healing on himself. Maybe he is just hopeful his red lines are a mere disease and can be cured, someday.

Weeks and months pass by. Gogo shows Harid his improvements when the café is empty and silent, and in friendly turn he receives information regarding the world. People are never tired of amusement in their lives, so Gogo will thrive, it's what the man thinks.

"No business starts if you don't take some optimism with yourself."

He always frets a little over competitiveness, but it's when he remembers he has something nobody else does, and falls silent.

There are ten towns in the world...

"I want you to perform."

"What."

His voice was rather plain, but his eyes were wide.

"Perform, to the people! When this beauty of a café gets filling again, why don't you show them what you're made of? Great training for your future. It's been a very long while since you started, youngin. I bet you're not even seeing anyone when you're not here."

He can't really argue with the man's logic, but he doesn't feel so ready, either.

"There's a lot that those people will want to see. You have to seek those abilities out! Juggling, equilibrating things, imitating iconic voices! Theater stuff!"

"But- I need time for that-"

"Maybe not time, what you need is some help. And I'm here for that." Harid snatched two corks from a decorative cork-filled glass, throwing them at him. Gogo caught them wordlessly. "Juggle those. You know how to juggle?"

"Lha." he felt them along his hands.

"Ah, don't say that, of course you do." before the boy could start an attempt, the man took another two corks and demonstrated the juggling for him. It looked fairly simple.

Gogo began doing the same himself, but without using any of his unnatural mimicking abilities. If it was about reflex, he was certain he would improve it.

"Two is okay, but three's the charm. You have to impress people." Harid had him stop so he could be handed a third cork.

Juggling three required a more precise reflex, but the attendant simply told him to relax, as corks did no damage if they just fell about. And they would fall a lot until he mastered this.

An aged man entered the café as he juggled, and Gogo nearly let them all fall, surprised when he did manage to catch them back and secure them against his body. This earned a toothless smile and a giggle from the client, who gave him a couple of claps in delight.

Gogo glanced at Harid, who with a huge grin waved the fourth cork in his direction.

Challenge accepted.

His training sessions with Harid went much like this, happening mostly in early morning and late night, the man complaining he should not skip lunch, the café's owner shrugging at what they did, as he would be proud to allege this was Gogo's favourite place if the young man ever did get famous with his tricks and treats out there.

"And dancing, I hope you know dancing?"

Gogo pointed northwards, even though they were inside the building, towards the jungle. "There are Visnu birds, back there."

Harid laughed heartily until he was out of breath.

"No, not mating dances, oh dear, boy, let's learn some moves."

"There was this guy, such a genious dancer- his nickname was Loborn, 'cause he was a lowborn in Jidoor, parents came from Tzen, but he refused to go living in Zozo and instead captivated everybody! He had been here once, some years back, but he's died a couple years ago. Well-ho; but his moves are immortal."

Harid is clumsy in his steps. Gogo nonetheless gets the idea, and repeats the movements, elaborating on them.

"You're young, you can move a lot." the man chuckled, "Maybe if we get some music playing sometime, you can dance stuff all your own."

"You're going to catch a cold."

"I'm not taking anything off."

They've been practicing equilibrium, too, and thus came up the well-founded myth of seals being able to balance anything over their muzzles, and then the actual seals came, migrating from the north, and these have been nearly domesticated by the Nikeans through generations, thus more obedient and very willing to do tricks to earn some food. Gogo had taken an empty jackfruit to prove their balance. Trying to mimic a creature with no hinder legs while a pair of steps away from the sea wasn't exactly the brightest idea.

"I'll dry under the sun. Don't worry about it."

He never truly understood the people, focusing on them or not. Yet it's what he's trying to do, getting to understand them so he can know how to best bring forth their smiles.

It is only after a longer while, after searching out the world within Nikeah itself, that Gogo speaks out, a sweat-soaked mess,"I will. I'll do... the performing."

He awaits, on his corner. Unnerve grips at him when nothing else will. More people enter the café, delay their time leisurely. Harid sent him occasional glances as though to leave him in expectation, but the sensation that he could burst did not come. It's the emotions, lacking.

Which has a good side, for when the man rose arm and voice to call for everyone's attention, the youth let his throat vibrate and his stance uncurl.

Gogo gave his introduction by whistling like a local bird. Focusing on thoughts would certainly lessen his shyness. The simple imitation was enough to make the general interest stir.

He rose to the stool with a gull's shrill, which came out more accurate than he'd wished. Unnerve does that.

There was an array of memories he could pick up from, but caution was needed to choose. His feet led him to the Jidoorian lowborn's famous dance moves which he'd tried to perfect. His accuracy got the hoorrah that clicked everyone in.

There was only lack of music to mourn, else he'd try and dance for much longer. When his legs ceased he moved his torso instead, hissing menacingly like a serpent, loud to assure it came from him.

With a sleight of arm, he snatched the air and hushed the sound, and when he opened his hand again, the hiss he drew out was the one of a cat. They were intrigued. Gogo let out a laugh, the laugh of a kookaburra. This was a difficult one, and he could sense the admiration in their expressions.

Harid gave some light prods at him with a trio of spoons, and the youth noticed, with a swift nod, what he meant with that.

Gogo took the three spoons and focused on himself to not let his arms shiver, before throwing the first, then the second, until he was juggling them. This was no great feat, not yet. "Harid, give me more." The flexibility would pay off.

With a dramatic nod, the man handed him three more, and it was only a brief pause before they, too, were circling the air. The applauses were encouraging.

Whether this was a good or bad trait, the mime would not decide even in years and years to come, but Harid was a bit too overconfident. He did not bother to ask before placing a small bottle over his nose.

Before he could freak out and lose focus, as though in instinct, the memory of the seal came to him- and soon he was moving his hips and staring fixedly upwards as his body seemed to come in balance with the rest of his arms. This raised an uproar of applauses.

Getting out of it was harder than getting in. He elaborated the catching, giving off dramatic vibes due to being upon a bar stand of all places, then swung the bottle away and into safety.

Amidst mirthful laughter and amusement, he heard a young one asking loudly whether he was a boy or a girl. It seemed to pour expectation on the atmosphere, and Gogo could not think about the question for long before Harid suggested, "Well why dont'ya talk it up to them?"

There's that look on his face, Take advantage of it, boy.

"Well, how do you guess the gender of a person?" Gogo lowered his voice to a very deep rumble, "Perhaps you wait until they speak," then raised it to a fine and high picth, "and take your conclusions from there."

At this point, it was more than certain he was a gem, and not some untinkered mineral either. Somebody asked him to lower the band at least until his mouth was uncovered, to see if the sounds were truly his- and Gogo recognized that hesitation would brew suspicion. He lowered the band, and as soon as his lips came in contact with the cooler air, he meowed.

It becomes a string- he mimics the next movements of the inquiring person, then the voice of another, and the more participative fellas are eager to request mimics of him, be it a lion's roar or the chitchat of Grease Monkes, though he can't do them all, because he hasn't seen or heard everything for himself. He couldn't, for one, imitate Gestahl, or the chief-sailor of a traveler family's ride. But it does not disappoint them and Gogo is glad about it.

Harid at last pulls him down from the stand, before he can exhaust himself further, and it seems like the end of a theather performance to an extent, but with less mood to it. His throat feels like it was run over by a mouse wearing an armour.

Though dizzy, he could still hear Harid's proud, proud words:

"You're cut out for the job, boy!"

It's only four days later, yet he on his own initiative got a small pay for mimicking the call of each of the preserved species in the museum. The young children who did get in had plenty of fun with him, getting squawks when he had the feathers of his accessories pulled.

It's thrilling to know that nowhere else in the world would one find a museum or institute that offered this to their visitors. All his differences were being noted in a good way.

Someone has called him talented. It's more than he bargained for.

"Why are you never home?"

Gogo blinked. Was he talking to- "Yes?" he craned his neck towards his father, otherwise remaining as still as a stone.

"You are always out." Stern and swift.

"There are more things to do outside." The mime tried to word it carefully.

"What things?"

"Observing people." His olive green is unreadable.

The father's expression changes to a more ferocious semblant and Gogo goes on edge, wary; it looks like the man is going to spout accusations and more questions and he's afraid of a drastical act like locking him in his room, as had once happened, some unrecordable time ago.

It's when his mother comes in and he doesn't know whether that makes it more frightening or less so, even as she speaks, commands: "Don't look at him." There's an edgy turmoil to her voice.

Gogo obeys it, not willing to keep looking. They never refer to themselves as parents, or to him as a son, nor even by his name, which he still doesn't know if they were the ones to give.

He's not bothered or hurt anymore, just scared.

Why should he remain in the shadows in dark nights? There was no reason to, and all of him agreed to that. Most of the bounds that shackled people were merely ideas, merely in their heads. He hadn't understood much when the Marandan tutor first said it.

The pub here is lively in plenty of nights. Since people from all over the world tend to traverse the near-port locations, of course many of them would stay up late for the sake of Nikean festivities and even more cultural blending.

Gogo wasn't really allowed here at night for most of his life- law in Nikeah may not be too harsh, but they're not going to let every young'un stride into a place like this, and so late too. But he's no longer that young.

That's one place where it's very interesting to watch people, their actions and words. He can see people from the north, the east and the west, the south, and, naturally, from Nikeah. Their accents and clothes spoke as much.

A bellydancer moved in the middle of the room, swaying hips and arms in practiced movements. She wore a veil over her mouth, as though to reawaken the rusty tradition of using veils to attract different sorts of fortunes, or tell what the wearer was feeling. Bright blue pronounced creativity, dark blue was of mourning and sadness, and so on; she wore purple of lust and dark brown of command, of non-submission.

Gogo is draped with many colours. He is a bit of everything- that's his trade.

He focused on her, on the rhythm of a timeless song and of how she did well in moving with it. The others in the room may be focusing on the delectable sight, but his focus lies on the details of movement that will allow him to do the same.

He wasn't planning to want to join in.

But he is soon standing and moving the same way, hips describing circles and arms adorning the dance with the balance they granted. The youth has to get used to crowds, after all.

Gogo makes it so his mimicry is not too similar nor perfect, and finds himself comforted that his joining isn't being berated or unwelcomed.

The dancer seems to take it as a game and him a challenger, and so they move faster and encircle each other and do not touch, and the expectators are already clapping alongside the beat.

This is so fun- they only stop when the song ends, receiving good response from the crowd. Though some coins are thrown to both, Gogo tries to give his to the dancer, who simply pushes them back to him while shaking her head, commending him on his performance. These are earned, she said.

Bowing to the woman, he swirls out of the room in dance- an actor leaving the stage- and there is no higher confidence in him than as he returns home from that.

If it's too early, or too late, he can always use his window as entrance to his room. This was one of the highpoints of having parents who pretend you don't exist most of the time- they never call him for breakfast nor do they check if he's sleeping well. Other kids, meanwhile, tend to have their parents' voices ringing in their ears most of the time. He wonders how that must feel.

His parents have become less and less present in his life. When he was a young child, they took care, sure, but as he grew, so did his independence, at the same rate their ability to remember him every once in a while decreased. How would they pay any attention to him, though, when they only seemed to bicker more and more with each other? This was not the sort of "voice ringing in ears" that he wished to experience. Since he was now close to becoming an adult, and his home felt more like a warzone with glares and harsh words being exchanged right and left, Gogo took the liberty to wake earlier than them, take his small share of the breakfast, and go off on his way through the window.

He has long shaken (back, not off) the fact they might also be fighting about him.

It's in one of these mornings that he steps into the Cormorant Café Corner as soon as it opens. Harid greets him with a laugh; "Do you sleep in those clothes?"

"Not all of them." Gogo responds with a shrug, taking place on a chair in his favourite table.

"You're growing, boy. Yet you're always finding new stuff to put on! How're you going to attract some ladies?"

The mime simply looked up at Harid, as though the option was too distant for himself to even try.

"Well, 't least be glad you don't need a face to be recognized."

He's afraid of that, having a face. Even with all of his features except for his eyes and nosebridge covered, stripes can still be seen. What he has learned through his mimicking is that human minds sometimes have resemblance to any other animal's; this unexpected irrationality is what he fears from others.

Aggressive animals would attack him because he's different from them; he fears the same of people.

The Café fares well, and for that Harid manages to lend Gogo a small treat every once in a while. Holding the thin wrist for a moment has him ponder, then ask;

"Do yo parents know of what you're doing?"

"Don't even mention them. It's best if they do not."

He offered an understanding smile. "Those two sure are a handful."

An archer challenged him, once. Wanted to see how well he could learn. It's one of the moments when Gogo mixes both innate ability with normal attempt.

They await until there is no wind. The archer is slow and precise in his position, so the mime can easily take in every ounce of movement.

When he lets go of the string, the arrow's point buries very near the center. Clapping politely at the archer's feat (he seems to have lost the ability to get impressed- hopefully that's not true), Gogo ceases to focus, awaiting commands.

"That was supposed to- well." The man stood upright, lending Gogo the bow and an arrow.

"What should I aim for?"

"The center." There's some incredulity to that tone.

Patient, the younger man took position in the same spot the archer had taken, and despite being told to aim for the center, he focuses to try and use the same pressure and distance, and for a moment feels as though he is cheating. But this is no competition.

When he releases, the arrow collides with the first one and both fall to the ground.

"There's no wind." he remarks to the ranger's wide-eyed stance, and doesn't really lie as he says that.

He's proud now. Proud of himself.

It's been years, all passed flying. Seven years that were utterly different from the first eleven he had. He has made something of this inglorious husk, of this nobody. All by himself, was it? Gogo's parents hadn't been of help, and he went by acquaintances instead of friends.

It was a humming pride, tickling at him. If he could make a living out of it, all the better. One more year and he'd be an adult by Nikeah's standards.

For a long while, he has entertained the thought of being able to use his flexible job-to-be to see the world, to go by himself worrilessly and without weights besides his own pulling him down. If emotional attachments were the only thing to worry about, he should do fine.

Would his parents find that agreeable, though?

Perhaps he should do things for them, at least for now. Tasks, gifts. He wondered if it would be of use, or if it would be as pointless as the many offerings the northern plains' people gave to the gods.

His acid mixture seemed like a good present, and brewing a large amount of it was what he would do. Gogo set out early to buy little and gather much of what would be needed.

The jungle welcomed him in with plenty of life, with the many colours that made him feel like he could be part of it. It's among what he will miss if he does leave Nikeah.

As he returned with the ingredients, attempting despite himself to not attract too much attention in these times of right before mid-day, a loud and continuous crashing and cracking sound startled him.

Along with most of the people near their street.