The world has gone mad today
And good's bad today
And black's white today
And day's night today
When most guys today
That women prize today
Are just silly gigolos...
And though I'm not that great a romancer
I know that I'm bound to answer
When you propose,
"Anything goes!"
- Cole Porter, "Anything Goes."
What wakes Archer from his dreamless sleep is nothing painful. Nothing cruel. It is a sound. Something soft, lilting, and sweet. It takes him a moment to realize what the sound is.
Music.
He sits up, realizing that it isn't merely music.
It's song.
Someone is singing.
A woman.
But where?
And…more to the point, where the hell is he? What is he wearing? He looks down at himself and does an inventory. Leather jacket, t-shirt, jeans, boots… In short, what he was wearing when they—
When they dragged him out to the docks, beat the shit out of him, and—
Quickly, Archer's hand flies to the top of his head. He breathes a sigh of relief when he feels a full head of hair there. Scrounging around in his pockets produces a mirror, one that lets him see that not only is his hair on his head—someone bothered to style it for him in an impressive pompadour.
"What the fuck?"
His handsome face stares right back at him, contorted in confusion but otherwise with not a single mark or scratch to speak of. He is completely flawless—if only a little bit paler than he remembers.
"Am I dead?" He doesn't particularly feel dead. Archer looks around, finally noticing the bars surrounding him. "The fuck is this place—?"
Beyond the bars are strangely familiar sights. Brightly-colored signs surrounded by colored flash bulbs. Cartoonish wooden cutouts of animals and clowns. Sawdust—or maybe hay—litters the floor outside and, yes, inside his apparent prison. A cage, his mind clarifies; a cage meant for animals. Circus animals.
"I'm in a circus?" Archer shakes the bars. He prowls the cage in a crouched position, shaking them every few paces. "Hello? He—hello! Help! Somebody out there? I'm stuck in this—"
The graceless fall reunites him momentarily with pain, but at least he is no longer trapped inside. The singing that woke him up is back, though seemingly softer still—enough to make him wonder if he might just be imagining it.
"Hello?"
A round of high, girlish giggling attracts his attention. He starts down one sawdust-strewn aisle, only for the singing to grow louder but in the opposite direction. Archer stops. Looks around. Then he hears footsteps, light and fast, coming from the direction of the giggling. Archer turns just in time to see what he swears is the shadow of a girl's form retreating. Without thinking, he gives chase, calling after whoever might be spying on him. In the process, the rest of this strange carnival opens up before him. Rides! Games! Tents with signs that advertise freak shows and oddities from all over! As he stands there a moment taking it all in, awed into slack jawed wonder. The smell of smell popcorn and cotton candy make his stomach rumble.
But…where is everyone?
His eyes catch a lump of something moving next to a striped orange-and-yellow tent advertising burlesque contortionists. Upon closer inspection, the lump of something is a sitting man dressed in a bowler hat and clothes that have seen much better days; a man with his face painted up to look like a clown shedding a single tear.
"Hey." The clown looks up, a little bewildered. "Did you see anyone run past here? Girls or something?"
The man tilts his head. He looks around, shrugs. Then, quite casually, he takes off his bowler hat and holds it up to Archer. With his makeup, the expression crossing his features looks more exaggerated. Archer raises his eyebrows, still quietly marveled that his face—his beautiful, undamaged face!—doesn't hurt from the gesture.
"What?"
"Penny, sir?" rumbles the hobo clown.
Perhaps out of the instinct born of living in the slums, Archer pats himself down. He digs in the pockets of his jacket, of his jeans…and finds no coin, but rather something else. His knife. The trusty little switchblade that got him through so much—
And also, in its own way, betrayed him.
"I-I got nothin' of cash, man. Sorry. Just this—" He offers his knife to the clown. "Maybe you can pawn it or something. They got pawn shops around here?"
Again with that tilt of the head. The clown returns the hat to his head before cautiously reaching out to take the knife. Over and over he turns it. He pops the blade open, runs it across the hem of his jacket. He nods a little before pocketing the item. And then he does something else.
He points towards the largest tent in the area.
"Might find what you're lookin' for in there."
With only the briefest of thanks from his lips, Archer runs straight ahead. There is still no sign of anyone else, no one to stop him or tell him where else to go. Chances are the tent will be just as empty. Maybe the clown just wanted to be alone with the bottle Archer saw nearby. Maybe the guy is so drunk out of his mind he didn't know where he was pointing…
He sort of regrets giving the knife away.
He also regrets not asking where (or what) this place is and how he got here. But chances are high that the hobo clown doesn't know the answers to those questions, either, so there is no way to go but forward.
Or so Archer tells himself.
"Hello?"
The interior of the tent is darkened save for a large red spotlight in the center ring. There are benches lining the walls but no one in them. As he dares to get nearer, doing his best to ignore the increasing suspicion, he notices a coil of rope sitting in the center ring. Who left this behind? Why would they leave it behind?
Maybe it's part of a trap. Maybe they want him to investigate and, once he gets close enough—
What kind of stupid idea is that? What sort of bait is rope?
Archer sighs heavily, stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "This is bullshit, I swear—"
Then he hears it again. The music. The singing. It's coming from behind him, from outside of the tent, almost as if the singer is reminding him of which way he should actually be going. A little smirk pulls across Archer's lips. Intrigue fully raised, he starts to leave—
And that's when they attack.
Girls.
Four of them, all dressed like burlesque dancers and painted up like clowns.
They grab him and drag him back to the center ring with him very much struggling. Two of them wrap him up in the rope on the order of the one dressed in a corset and a cage-like skirt, her mouth painted in the red gash of a smile. His questions and his struggles only get him high-pitched, screaming laughter in return. They toss him to the floor. They pin him down. It takes a few moments before the haze of disorientation lifts enough for Archer to realize they are singing.
No, not singing.
More like screeching.
"Georgie Porgie, Puddin' and Pie,
Kissed the girls and made them cry!
When the boys came out to play
Georgie Porgie ran away!"
Over and over again, shriller and shriller. They tear at his clothes. The more he fights against them, the sharper their fingers feel.
Like talons or…or claws…
Archer screams and someone stuffs a striped thigh-high into his mouth. Someone wraps another one around his eyes. They tie him up tight, tight, tight, and then he feels himself being lifted. Some part of his mind reels at the idea. Lifted by these girls? Only by these girls? Impossible! They looked too slim! Too small! Too delicate! How could they even…? How is it even possible that they could be—?
"You're in Hell, now, boy! Just you lie back and we'll take care of the rest!" cackles one of the girls.
"Shall we have him for tea?" calls another.
"Not dressed like that, we won't!" calls the leader. "But we'll find him something suitable!"
Hell? A hundred tiny creatures run down Archer's spine. Surely that's a joke. Surely this is just some crazy alcohol-fueled nightmare, right? Or maybe it's a hallucination driven from one too many blows to the head? Severe blood loss? Out of somewhere, his mind brings up something he once read (during one of the few times he bothered to crack open a book) about dying dreams. Maybe this is one whole giant dying dream!
But I thought you wanted to live.
Again, there's that voice! From where?
From underwater, the one that whispered to him in the ocean.
But that wasn't real! He was never drowning!
Right?
All of the screeching singing falls silent. All movement comes to a sudden, jolting stop. What now? Archer tries to twist his body around and winds up dropped on the ground, left gasping for air. The sound of heavy footsteps walking around him fills his ears next, followed by the feeling of someone drawing near. A pair of calloused fingers frees him from the rope with the help of a knife. The stranger helps him sit up. Archer frees himself of the makeshift blindfold and gag to realize his savior is the hobo clown.
"Th-thanks." He narrows his eyes when the clown holds out the knife. "What?"
The hobo clown simply gives him a shrug. "You might need it."
Considering the very recent assault and near misadventure into forced drag, the man might have a point.
"Did you find what you were looking for in the tent?"
Archer starts to shake his head, only to nod. "Only it turns out it wasn't what I wanted."
"Well, that's life." The hobo chuckles. He points to another tent, this one striped purple, pink, and black. "That one might be better."
This time, Archer doesn't immediately go running in. "What makes you so sure?"
"Just a friendly suggestion. Choice is all yours."
And away goes the man in the tattered suit, leaving the confused young man alone and confused outside of the main tent. Well, alone mainly in one respect. There are other people now—women in glittering costumes, men in top hats and suits—and every so often, the hobo approaches one of them with his hat turned upside-down in his gloved hand, asking for pennies. Only a few even pay him the courtesy of giving a good-natured laugh. One or two drop him a few coins from purses and pockets. Archer watches until the hobo turns the corner and then turns his eyes to the tent pointed out to him. It certainly stands out from the others in that it appears to be the only tent with its coloration. A dainty-looking white dining set sits outside of the tent. The table of the set has been set for tea, with a pretty pink teapot and matching empty cups atop white saucers. Teddy bears sit in the chairs. One of them, upon Archer's closer inspection, is missing its left eye; the other is missing its right arm and left ear. A wooden sign hangs above the flap, bearing a bloomed black rose and elegant script.
The Dollhouse of Love
Archer crosses his arms. Something about this doesn't feel right, especially considering the ordeal he just endured. A better idea would be to find out where he is, who runs this place, and how the hell to get out of here. But where does he start with that?
Rustling inside the tent distracts his attention. He tries to see inside but the doorway of the tents is obstructed by a screen of black lace, allowing him to see only the blur of shapes and shadows. The smell of incense and flowery perfume drifts to Archer's nose. Tinny violin music reaches his ears. The shape of a person drifts past the screen.
And then he hears it.
The singing.
It's coming from inside the tent. From the person inside.
Rather, from the woman inside.
What's a little detour?
The smell of incense and perfume is stronger inside the tent. Candlelight gives everything a soft glow. The phonograph sits on a table in the far left corner, near a desk the same dark brown as the music player and its stand. The desk is loaded with books, stacks of papers, more candles, a few teacups and another pink teapot. Along the left wall is a long reclining couch, its frame as white as the dining set and the cushions a deep burgundy. On the right side is a rack of costumes, a large wooden chest—
"Oh!"
—and a songbird.
Well…a woman, actually, but the way she's dressed makes Archer think initially of birds. With a better look at her in the candlelight, she looks more like a ballerina than a bird. Fluffy lace and organza the color of sunset make her corseted waist seem even smaller than it probably is. (He tries very hard to ignore that he can tell she is wearing nothing underneath the corset, but Archer has always been a little too attentive to detail.) Maybe it's also the work of the flames that make her hair and skin look paler than than they are, or maybe it's the makeup on her face or the tights on her long, slender legs. Her lips are a vibrant red, however, and her eyes a clear blue. She is decidedly beautiful, if a bit strange-looking. It takes Archer a moment to regain his composure and pull out his best little smirk.
"Hi. You, uh—" He clears his throat. "—you the one signing in here, or—? Hey! Wait—!"
She breezes past him and he gives chase, following her past all the tents and the gathering carnies that seem to be coming from all corners now. He briefly stalls when he sees the tall figure of a man in what might possibly be the strangest getup so far. Horns extending from a red- and white-painted face, hands fashioned to look like claws; he almost looks like—
The Devil?
Just a bit, perhaps. But Archer gives it little thought when the smallest of hisses catches his attention. The girl, the songbird ballerina from the strange tent—
"Hey, w-wait up—" Archer follows her, fairly certain she is not so much trying to escape him as lead him somewhere. "Where're we going? What is this place? Hey—"
She turns only partway to raise a slender finger to her vibrantly red lips, and that's what he sees what the candlelight only hinted to—dark lines running and branching all along the right side of her face from cheek to brow. It takes Archer a minute to realize that the lines are not merely drawn on with makeup or paint.
They are cracks.
But that's impossible! Cracks? Cracks in her face? Gotta be makeup, right? Some fancy kind of thing? Like a mask or something?
Yes, that has to be it. No one normal walks around with cracks in their face. It isn't physically possible.
But what if it is? whispers that voice from the ocean. What if those cracks are very real? And what if that tall man's makeup is not makeup at all? What if you really are dead?
What if this really is Hell?
Impossible. Just absolutely impossible. He is probably only seeing things. A trick of the light, maybe, or just exhaustion.
"You sure do give a good chase." Archer gestures to the booth she stands behind. "This your thing?"
The woman nods, a coquettish smile on her lips. She taps first above, then below the booth, drawing his attention to the text.
Kissing Booth
5 Tickets
A kissing booth! His favorite place to visit at any carnival. Archer saunters over with his hands in the pockets of his jeans. "I don't have any tickets. (She frowns.) I can't get one for free? (She wrinkles up her nose and shakes her head.) Fair enough…"
For someone who might have a lovely voice, this strange woman does not seem to be much of a talker. Maybe the voice came from one of the records for her phonograph instead. Still, something says not to write her off completely. She is quite beautiful, despite the disconcerting nature of her face, and she has yet to treat him like those other clown girls… Maybe she's actually got some sanity to her. He ventures to get close enough to put his hands on the booth.
"Do you know where we are?" Archer asks her. She nods. "Can you tell me?"
She looks sad, then—genuinely so!—as she shakes her head. The fingers of her left hand go to her throat, tracing a thin, web-white line that is easily missed if one is not looking for it. Archer feels a strange twinge of recognition in seeing the scar.
"Someone…someone cut your throat? Same person do the, uh…" He gestures uncomfortably. "That hurt your face?"
The woman nods. She puts her hands over one of his and Archer gasps a little. Her hands are cold; like marble, maybe, or like polished tile floors in the winter. He watches her turn his hand over, watches her trace one chilly finger along the line of her palm, and amusement creeps into his voice.
"I thought this was the kissing booth—"
She shushes him by pressing that finger to his lips. How cold, she is! Perhaps because she has no one to keep her warm? He's good at that. With a cheeky little grin, Archer does what he's done a million times before when other girls press their fingers to his lips—he presses a kiss back. It startles her, the gesture—her blue eyes quickly flit up to meet his gaze—but Archer plays it smooth. He reaches up and takes her hand in his. Very gently, very tenderly, he lets his fingers brush over the skin.
It almost doesn't even feel like skin, does it? She feels like…like ceramic? Like marble or…or plaster…
"Pretty little doll like you shouldn't be all alone, y'know? Especially in a place like this." Archer leans on the booth, lowering his voice as if to share some secret. "Pretty little doll like you, if you were my girl? Wouldn't ever have to worry about being cold, being alone… Surely wouldn't let some brute come after you like that. You'd be safe with me."
The kissing booth girl leans in, too, resting her chin in her free hand. This close, there is no denying that the cracks in her face are very real, but he sees nothing inside of them. No blood, no bone. Only darkness. Somehow, this doesn't bother him anywhere near as much as he suspects it should. Her beauty and the warming of her hand in his outshine the marring. He wonders if her lips are cold, too, and if they feel the way her hand does. This close, they look soft and full… Perfect for kissing.
"What do you think, doll? Think you might wanna be my girl?"
The loud crack of a whip startles them both. A large man in a top hat and overcoat appears from around a tent, a whip hanging over his shoulder. The glower he directs towards Archer triggers a feeling of unease deep in his gut. The unease twists into a tight knot when he realizes the man glowering at him has two jagged scars running over where his left eye should be. The tightening of the woman's grip in his hand only encourages the feeling.
And then the menacing-looking stranger begins to step forward.
"Wh—who is that?" Archer glances back to her, hoping for help, and only gets a bit of a flustered look in response. "Who is that? Why is he looking at me like—like he wants to rip my head off?"
Her mouth moves but no sound comes out. The stranger is coming closer, his focus definitely on the young man. Archer ponders running, ponders pulling the woman with him just in case this large hulk of a man might have been the one to make her face look the way it does—though, somehow, he immediately knows that not to be true.
Archer feels a tug on his arm in the direction of the kissing booth girl. He is barely looking at her full in the face before her lips crash hard into his, cold as the rest of her but soft—so very soft! The shock of the moment is quick to wear off, along with any sense of impending danger, and he gives in, daring to cradle the undamaged portion of her face in his hand. The way she kisses Archer; it's almost as if she has known him longer than a handful of minutes, as if she already knows what he likes and desires. She tastes like freshly-spun cotton candy, like the first good batch of the stuff for the carnival season. The briefest brush of her tongue against his shoots a bolt of electricity straight through him. If only the booth were somewhere else, somewhere other than in between them! A chance, that's all he needs. One chance to get her out of that damn getup, to warm her up and give her some color…
"I could make you sing," Archer mumbles breathlessly before her mouth catches his again. "Gonna—I can get—"
A small, sharp pain in his lip cuts him off, one that makes him jerk his head back. Instinctively, he runs his tongue over the spot, tasting blood. The kissing booth girl looks at him coyly. A perfect mimic of his smirk is on those pretty red lips.
"You bit me."
He only realizes just how dumb that sounds out loud a moment before the world violently pitches sideways into darkness.