Come down and join the circus!
It's easy to do.
You can marry the strongman,
But I think the knife-thrower's got his eye on you...
- Vermillion Lies, "Circus Apocalypse"
This time, the gentle sound of her voice is what brings Archer out of the dark. She isn't singing to him, just humming a tune he feels like he should recognize. Archer lies with his eyes closed, taking in the sound and the gentle caress of her fingertips across his forehead. He wonders what her voice sounds like now in the wake of whatever happened to her. Can she still actually talk? What about sing? Is the humming the only thing she has left? But he heard her, didn't he? He heard her sing…
Then again, she also has that phonograph and those records.
Archer draws in a breath. The kissing booth girl stops humming. Her fingers alight on his wrist. Gently, she squeezes; somehow, without needing to be told, he knows it to be a command: Open your eyes.
So he does. He gazes up into those pretty eyes looking down at him and he smiles.
"Hey there, Doll. You miss me?" His smile widens when she nods a little. She caresses his face and presses a kiss to his cheek. "Thank you."
Carefully, she helps him sit up. That's when it becomes apparent that he is in her tent on her reclining couch. Nothing hurts. He is unblemished. Unscarred. Whole.
Sort of.
"My hair—" Archer swallows. Panic rises as he feels his head, feels where skin ends and bone begins. "My h-head—"
She shushes him into silence, pressing a finger to his lips the same way she did at the kissing booth. (She. Her. What is it that L…that the horned man called her? The Painted Doll. He can understand why.) She stays that way, staring at him with a commanding sort of look, until Archer until he drops his hands into his lap. It takes him a few moments to figure out that the Doll wants him to close his eyes. He listens to her moving around her tent; opening and closing things, moving items, sliding clothes side to side on the rack. Outside, the carnival is a buzz. There are people calling to each other. A rickety cart rolls by, its wheels in desperate need of oil. Archer hears a girl with a high voice—the same girl who spoke in his ear when he was bound up in rope—poke her head in and ask the Doll about him. It amuses him a little when it sounds like the Doll sends her off running.
"When can I open my eyes?" he asks, knowing without needing to be reminded that expecting an answer (a verbal one, at least) is futile. "What're you doing over there, huh? Getting pretty for me? (The sounds of movement stop.) You don't have to, y'know. C'mere…"
Her footsteps are so light against the ground that it startles Archer when he feels the Doll place something snug around his head. Attempts to feel it out earn him light slaps to his hands. Attempts to reach for her, to slide his hands around her little waist while she makes readjustments; those are a little bit more well-received.
"So much to learn about you. How we gonna do that if you don't talk to me, huh?" Archer's thumbs brush against her waist idly. "Through touch? Through song, maybe?"
The Painted Doll responds by taking his hands in hers. Still so very, very cold! He'll fix that. Soon enough, he will. He ventures to open his eyes and look up at her.
"I'm willing to learn," he says, "if you're willing to teach."
Something about this pleases her. It isn't immediately evident on her face, but something… Archer can feel it in his chest. The notion of her pleasure at his willingness to put himself under her tutelage, under her care. Like a pet. She rewards him with a kiss and he is pleased to find that her lips, at least, are still warm enough from their last encounter—only this time, she tastes of fresh strawberries.
A tug of his arms from her instructs Archer to rise. She guides him towards a standing mirror that he is unsure was here on his first visit. His stomach contorts. A desire to argue her dies in his throat. How can he complain? Where's his right? Still, he would be more than happy if he never saw another mirror in his life—until Archer sees what the Doll has done for him. A wig of sorts, styled into a perfect pompadour, rests snugly on his head and covers any evidence of his scalping. Archer's heart sinks a little when it feels hard to the touch, like molded plastic, instead of actual hair. Compared to the alternative of going without, however… Next to him, the Doll beams, clearly proud of herself.
"This was your idea?" Archer asks.
Still beaming, the Doll nods. She wanders away to the rack and gives him a new set of clothes and boots very much like his old ones. The black leather of the boots is unmarked, however, and the black motorcycle jacket is a different style from the one he used to wear.
"You want me to change?" She nods, turning around and shielding her eyes to give Archer privacy. "You don't want to help me?"
Though she does not turn, the Doll stamps her foot, and Archer gets the feeling he has given her cheeks the first bit of color not borne from makeup in a long time.
The clothes and shoes feel perfect, as if everything was made specifically for him. The Doll also looks quite pleased. From her desk, she retrieves a small but wide silver box. Inside, he finds a familiar item—his knife. The knife that saved him countless times. The knife that betrayed him. The handle has been decorated with a painted gold scorpion, but he would recognize the knife anywhere. Archer hesitates.
"You must bear the marks of your sin."
Isn't that what the horned man said? But accepting this… Taking it means he accepts his fate. That he fully accepts that this is real, that he is dead, and that he is among the damned here.
It may not be so bad, though. Things could be worse, couldn't it?
They could. They most certainly could.
Archer takes the knife. It feels like it always has—familiar, right, his. He shows her the gold scorpion.
"What's this?"
As if on cue, an old man in a long coat enters the tent, bald save for a mane of gray hair ringed around his head. In his gnarled hands is a portfolio. Pocket watches of various colors hang from fob chains on his coat. As he lifts the monocular covering his left eye, he smiles at the Doll fondly, like an old father or grandfather addressing his favorite family member.
"Is he ready for presentation, dear?" When she nods, he studies the young man up and down before nodding in approval. "Very well. I am the Ticket-Keeper of this Carnival, though you may address me as Peter if you so wish."
"Peter."
"Yes." They shake hands. For an old man, he has quite the grip. "A most unfortunate name. Anyway. You are—or, shall I say, were—Archer Greene, yes? Unique sort of name. Lovely. Your father's, wasn't it? (Archer's gaze hardens.) Ah, yes. So it was. No worries. You won't be using now, but it'll be kept in good care—"
"What do you mean?" Archer asks.
"Well, sir, it's one of the rules. When one dies, they leave behind the life they led and start anew. So it is with joining the Carnival, and with it comes a new name to suit your new function." From the patient way he explains it, Archer can only wonder how many times the Ticket-Keeper has explained this before. "You, I believe… Ah. Yes. You have been assigned as our new knife thrower."
That sounds easy enough. Archer has done that before, when short on cash and high on bravado. "So what is my new name?"
"That, you will learn at your presentation." The Ticket-Keeper checks one of his gold watches. "If you are ready, we can begin. The Doll may accompany you if she wishes. The master says she is quite fond of you."
Archer feels her arm slide through his, feels her head tilt to his shoulder. The young man smiles a little in response, pats her hand. The Ticket-Keeper looks satisfied enough. He gestures for them to follow toward the main tent. Other carnies come out of their tents to get a look at their newcomer. Some smile at him. Others wave. A few sneer at him. The Doll hisses at a few of these, to Archer's amusement. They all fall in line behind them as they pass. A marching band starts up near the band, playing a jaunty little tune, and discordant voices join in. It is a giant procession down to the main tent with the Ticket-Keeper leading them; for a moment it makes him think of weddings. Isn't that what this is, sort of? A marriage? Maybe not to a specific person, but certainly a commitment of sorts to a new future. A new life.
Bye, bye, Archer Greene. So long and good riddance.
When they pass by where the hobo sits with his bottle, the man scrambles up. He throws something around the young man's neck—a red knitted scarf—and pats him on the back before joining the procession. It somehow becomes that much easier to leave the old life behind. Archer? Archer who?
Lucifer is waiting in the center ring. Next to him stands the tall, foreboding man in the top hat with the whip. The music and singing fade into silence as the procession gathers in the stands. Even the Painted Doll steps away, but not without pressing her fingertips to Archer's lips and giving him a look of warning with her eyes. He has just enough time to kiss her fingers before the Ticket-Keeper takes him by the arm and leads him away, towards Lucifer. A hand to his shoulder is all it takes for Archer to kneel.
"Archer Greene, you have been brought to us with the intent to join our Carnival. Entrance is not so freely given. Your indulgence in sin is quite impressive, but if sin alone were all that were necessary, this Carnival would be quite crowded." Lucifer looks into the crowd. "Who sponsors this man's entrance into the Carnival?"
The Painted Doll eagerly steps forward and stands to Archer's left. What surprises the crowd gathered is when the hobo also steps forward and takes his place to Archer's right. Lucifer looks down at the young man, eyebrow raised.
"What have you to say in his favor, Hobo?" asks Lucifer.
The Hobo clears his throat. "He was willing to part with his only means of defense so that I could find the means of earning my next loaf of bread. He's a sinner, sure, but he's got a streak of decency to him."
"And you, Painted Doll? What have you to say in the boy's favor?" The crowd watches as she takes on a demure manner of posing, her eyes bashfully downcast while pressing both hands to her own cheeks. Lucifer looks down at the potential new member, an incredulous on his features. "If I interpret this correctly…you're one of the first men in ages to find her wholly attractive. (Still with a demure air, she blows a kiss and traces its fictionalized flight out of the tent.) And you… He what?"
So she repeats the gesture, pointing in Archer's direction for emphasis and nodding. Not daring to turn, and thus unable to see her or her gestures, the look crossing Lucifer's face makes Archer nervous enough to forget the pain already growing in his kneecaps.
"Apparently," Lucifer says finally, "you passed her test. You find her wholly attractive and you passed her test."
"W-well," Archer ventures, "she is pretty."
It does little to make the horned man look less as if he may eviscerate the young man on the spot.
"Fine. As you have two witnesses in such high regard, all that remains now is for you to pledge your loyalty. Do you swear, on what decent portion remains of your soul, to carrying out my whims in humble service for the benefit of the Carnival and all of us therein?"
Archer licks his lips. "I-I do."
"And do you pledge, on what decent portion remains of your soul, to do so for all eternity?"
The tent is so silent you could hear a pin drop. Every eye is fixed on the center ring, on the young man kneeling before their horned leader. If he answers wrong, they might descend upon him and tear him to shreds—even the pretty little Doll at his side.
No, not might. They will.
Lucifer redirects Archer's gaze up to his face. "Well, boy?"
"I do." Archer clears his throat. "I—I do. I pledge to serve."
"For eternity?"
"For eternity." He nods. "Y-yes. I pledge to serve f-for eternity."
The horned man looks at the two sponsors, his expression exasperated. "Very well. Rise."
The young man does so. The Painted Doll and the hobo stand aside as Lucifer slides an arm around Archer's shoulders and turns him to face the crowd of carnies gathered in attendance.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you our newest member of the Carnival; a charming little knife-thrower—the Scorpion!"
The big top erupts in cheers and music. The Painted Doll threads her arm through his again. Another clap on the back from the hobo knocks the young man slightly off-balance. He smiles, waves to the audience as he turns the name over in his mind. No longer Archer Greene, town Lothario from the rough-and-tumble side of the tracks. Now he is the Scorpion, knife-thrower of the Devil's Carnival and apparent paramour of the beautiful Painted Doll.
He could certainly learn to enjoy this.
This time, the gentle sound of her voice is what brings Archer out of the dark. She isn't singing to him, just humming a tune he feels like he should recognize. Archer lies with his eyes closed, taking in the sound and the gentle caress of her fingertips across his forehead. He wonders what her voice sounds like now in the wake of whatever happened to her. Can she still actually talk? What about sing? Is the humming the only thing she has left? But he heard her, didn't he? He heard her sing…
Then again, she also has that phonograph and those records.
Archer draws in a breath. The kissing booth girl stops humming. Her fingers alight on his wrist. Gently, she squeezes; somehow, without needing to be told, he knows it to be a command: Open your eyes.
So he does. He gazes up into those pretty eyes looking down at him and he smiles.
"Hey there, Doll. You miss me?" His smile widens when she nods a little. She caresses his face and presses a kiss to his cheek. "Thank you."
Carefully, she helps him sit up. That's when it becomes apparent that he is in her tent on her reclining couch. Nothing hurts. He is unblemished. Unscarred. Whole.
Sort of.
"My hair—" Archer swallows. Panic rises as he feels his head, feels where skin ends and bone begins. "My h-head—"
She shushes him into silence, pressing a finger to his lips the same way she did at the kissing booth. (She. Her. What is it that L…that the horned man called her? The Painted Doll. He can understand why.) She stays that way, staring at him with a commanding sort of look, until Archer until he drops his hands into his lap. It takes him a few moments to figure out that the Doll wants him to close his eyes. He listens to her moving around her tent; opening and closing things, moving items, sliding clothes side to side on the rack. Outside, the carnival is a buzz. There are people calling to each other. A rickety cart rolls by, its wheels in desperate need of oil. Archer hears a girl with a high voice—the same girl who spoke in his ear when he was bound up in rope—poke her head in and ask the Doll about him. It amuses him a little when it sounds like the Doll sends her off running.
"When can I open my eyes?" he asks, knowing without needing to be reminded that expecting an answer (a verbal one, at least) is futile. "What're you doing over there, huh? Getting pretty for me? (The sounds of movement stop.) You don't have to, y'know. C'mere…"
Her footsteps are so light against the ground that it startles Archer when he feels the Doll place something snug around his head. Attempts to feel it out earn him light slaps to his hands. Attempts to reach for her, to slide his hands around her little waist while she makes readjustments; those are a little bit more well-received.
"So much to learn about you. How we gonna do that if you don't talk to me, huh?" Archer's thumbs brush against her waist idly. "Through touch? Through song, maybe?"
The Painted Doll responds by taking his hands in hers. Still so very, very cold! He'll fix that. Soon enough, he will. He ventures to open his eyes and look up at her.
"I'm willing to learn," he says, "if you're willing to teach."
Something about this pleases her. It isn't immediately evident on her face, but something… Archer can feel it in his chest. The notion of her pleasure at his willingness to put himself under her tutelage, under her care. Like a pet. She rewards him with a kiss and he is pleased to find that her lips, at least, are still warm enough from their last encounter—only this time, she tastes of fresh strawberries.
A tug of his arms from her instructs Archer to rise. She guides him towards a standing mirror that he is unsure was here on his first visit. His stomach contorts. A desire to argue her dies in his throat. How can he complain? Where's his right? Still, he would be more than happy if he never saw another mirror in his life—until Archer sees what the Doll has done for him. A wig of sorts, styled into a perfect pompadour, rests snugly on his head and covers any evidence of his scalping. Archer's heart sinks a little when it feels hard to the touch, like molded plastic, instead of actual hair. Compared to the alternative of going without, however… Next to him, the Doll beams, clearly proud of herself.
"This was your idea?" Archer asks.
Still beaming, the Doll nods. She wanders away to the rack and gives him a new set of clothes and boots very much like his old ones. The black leather of the boots is unmarked, however, and the black motorcycle jacket is a different style from the one he used to wear.
"You want me to change?" She nods, turning around and shielding her eyes to give Archer privacy. "You don't want to help me?"
Though she does not turn, the Doll stamps her foot, and Archer gets the feeling he has given her cheeks the first bit of color not borne from makeup in a long time.
The clothes and shoes feel perfect, as if everything was made specifically for him. The Doll also looks quite pleased. From her desk, she retrieves a small but wide silver box. Inside, he finds a familiar item—his knife. The knife that saved him countless times. The knife that betrayed him. The handle has been decorated with a painted gold scorpion, but he would recognize the knife anywhere. Archer hesitates.
"You must bear the marks of your sin."
Isn't that what the horned man said? But accepting this… Taking it means he accepts his fate. That he fully accepts that this is real, that he is dead, and that he is among the damned here.
It may not be so bad, though. Things could be worse, couldn't it?
They could. They most certainly could.
Archer takes the knife. It feels like it always has—familiar, right, his. He shows her the gold scorpion.
"What's this?"
As if on cue, an old man in a long coat enters the tent, bald save for a mane of gray hair ringed around his head. In his gnarled hands is a portfolio. Pocket watches of various colors hang from fob chains on his coat. As he lifts the monocular covering his left eye, he smiles at the Doll fondly, like an old father or grandfather addressing his favorite family member.
"Is he ready for presentation, dear?" When she nods, he studies the young man up and down before nodding in approval. "Very well. I am the Ticket-Keeper of this Carnival, though you may address me as Peter if you so wish."
"Peter."
"Yes." They shake hands. For an old man, he has quite the grip. "A most unfortunate name. Anyway. You are—or, shall I say, were—Archer Greene, yes? Unique sort of name. Lovely. Your father's, wasn't it? (Archer's gaze hardens.) Ah, yes. So it was. No worries. You won't be using now, but it'll be kept in good care—"
"What do you mean?" Archer asks.
"Well, sir, it's one of the rules. When one dies, they leave behind the life they led and start anew. So it is with joining the Carnival, and with it comes a new name to suit your new function." From the patient way he explains it, Archer can only wonder how many times the Ticket-Keeper has explained this before. "You, I believe… Ah. Yes. You have been assigned as our new knife thrower."
That sounds easy enough. Archer has done that before, when short on cash and high on bravado. "So what is my new name?"
"That, you will learn at your presentation." The Ticket-Keeper checks one of his gold watches. "If you are ready, we can begin. The Doll may accompany you if she wishes. The master says she is quite fond of you."
Archer feels her arm slide through his, feels her head tilt to his shoulder. The young man smiles a little in response, pats her hand. The Ticket-Keeper looks satisfied enough. He gestures for them to follow toward the main tent. Other carnies come out of their tents to get a look at their newcomer. Some smile at him. Others wave. A few sneer at him. The Doll hisses at a few of these, to Archer's amusement. They all fall in line behind them as they pass. A marching band starts up near the band, playing a jaunty little tune, and discordant voices join in. It is a giant procession down to the main tent with the Ticket-Keeper leading them; for a moment it makes him think of weddings. Isn't that what this is, sort of? A marriage? Maybe not to a specific person, but certainly a commitment of sorts to a new future. A new life.
Bye, bye, Archer Greene. So long and good riddance.
When they pass by where the hobo sits with his bottle, the man scrambles up. He throws something around the young man's neck—a red knitted scarf—and pats him on the back before joining the procession. It somehow becomes that much easier to leave the old life behind. Archer? Archer who?
Lucifer is waiting in the center ring. Next to him stands the tall, foreboding man in the top hat with the whip. The music and singing fade into silence as the procession gathers in the stands. Even the Painted Doll steps away, but not without pressing her fingertips to Archer's lips and giving him a look of warning with her eyes. He has just enough time to kiss her fingers before the Ticket-Keeper takes him by the arm and leads him away, towards Lucifer. A hand to his shoulder is all it takes for Archer to kneel.
"Archer Greene, you have been brought to us with the intent to join our Carnival. Entrance is not so freely given. Your indulgence in sin is quite impressive, but if sin alone were all that were necessary, this Carnival would be quite crowded." Lucifer looks into the crowd. "Who sponsors this man's entrance into the Carnival?"
The Painted Doll eagerly steps forward and stands to Archer's left. What surprises the crowd gathered is when the hobo also steps forward and takes his place to Archer's right. Lucifer looks down at the young man, eyebrow raised.
"What have you to say in his favor, Hobo?" asks Lucifer.
The Hobo clears his throat. "He was willing to part with his only means of defense so that I could find the means of earning my next loaf of bread. He's a sinner, sure, but he's got a streak of decency to him."
"And you, Painted Doll? What have you to say in the boy's favor?" The crowd watches as she takes on a demure manner of posing, her eyes bashfully downcast while pressing both hands to her own cheeks. Lucifer looks down at the potential new member, an incredulous on his features. "If I interpret this correctly…you're one of the first men in ages to find her wholly attractive. (Still with a demure air, she blows a kiss and traces its fictionalized flight out of the tent.) And you… He what?"
So she repeats the gesture, pointing in Archer's direction for emphasis and nodding. Not daring to turn, and thus unable to see her or her gestures, the look crossing Lucifer's face makes Archer nervous enough to forget the pain already growing in his kneecaps.
"Apparently," Lucifer says finally, "you passed her test. You find her wholly attractive and you passed her test."
"W-well," Archer ventures, "she is pretty."
It does little to make the horned man look less as if he may eviscerate the young man on the spot.
"Fine. As you have two witnesses in such high regard, all that remains now is for you to pledge your loyalty. Do you swear, on what decent portion remains of your soul, to carrying out my whims in humble service for the benefit of the Carnival and all of us therein?"
Archer licks his lips. "I-I do."
"And do you pledge, on what decent portion remains of your soul, to do so for all eternity?"
The tent is so silent you could hear a pin drop. Every eye is fixed on the center ring, on the young man kneeling before their horned leader. If he answers wrong, they might descend upon him and tear him to shreds—even the pretty little Doll at his side.
No, not might. They will.
Lucifer redirects Archer's gaze up to his face. "Well, boy?"
"I do." Archer clears his throat. "I—I do. I pledge to serve."
"For eternity?"
"For eternity." He nods. "Y-yes. I pledge to serve f-for eternity."
The horned man looks at the two sponsors, his expression exasperated. "Very well. Rise."
The young man does so. The Painted Doll and the hobo stand aside as Lucifer slides an arm around Archer's shoulders and turns him to face the crowd of carnies gathered in attendance.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you our newest member of the Carnival; a charming little knife-thrower—the Scorpion!"
The big top erupts in cheers and music. The Painted Doll threads her arm through his again. Another clap on the back from the hobo knocks the young man slightly off-balance. He smiles, waves to the audience as he turns the name over in his mind. No longer Archer Greene, town Lothario from the rough-and-tumble side of the tracks. Now he is the Scorpion, knife-thrower of the Devil's Carnival and apparent paramour of the beautiful Painted Doll.
He could certainly learn to enjoy this.