It's late, and he's tired, but he sees the physics-defying woman enter one of the train cars and can't help himself. He approaches the door and knocks.
She opens it seconds later, still wearing her blue leotard. Her face is pretty young—in her late twenties, Shawn would guess. Maybe even mid twenties. She blinks her blue-grey eyes in mild surprise and something that looks like relief or happiness—he can't be sure, and he certainly can't figure out why. "Mr. Ronaldo," she says, in a vaguely northern accent. "Hello."
He blinks, not sure what to make of this name business. "I dig that I already have a nickname, but usually there is some kind of basis for that type of thing."
She cocks her head a bit, leaning against the doorjamb, and he drops all forms of insincerity and glibness. "Please just call me Shawn."
"The Master said your name is Arashk Ronaldo."
He furrows his brow. "The Master?"
"Yes, our leader and director. The man who owns this carnival. You've met him, yes?"
"I… I think so." He's a bit disturbed by this revelation. "You call him the Master?"
"Yes."
"Doesn't he have a name?"
"Of course, but we don't use it." She pauses while he tries to think of something to say to that. Then, "Would you like to come in?"
He steps in readily, saying, "Thank you." The interior of the train car—or her section of it anyway—is rather nice but not very large. Still, it seems that she has everything she needs: a bed, a tiny bathroom, a shelf, a vanity, a small kitchen area with a microwave and stove. The walls are the same pale blue as her leotard, and by this point he has a reasonable guess as to her favorite color. She has a couple small posters and photos decorating her wall, shelf, and vanity, but he notes that all photos seem to be within the context of the carnival. He wonders how long she's been working here.
He stands there as she sits at her vanity and appears to resume the process of makeup removal. After a few seconds, not sure what else to do, he says, "So this is what it's like, huh?"
"It's a sneak peek. You will probably get a room of your own, similar to this one. Welcome to the show, by the way." She smiles, and it seems genuine, but there's something else there he can't quite put his finger on.
"Thanks," he says. "The show" is the last thing on Earth I want to be a part of.
"Oh, how rude of me! My name is Livia, Istok." She wipes her hand on a paper towel and sticks it out, and after a beat, he steps forward to shake it.
"Shawn Spencer," he says, suddenly desperately wanting her—anyone, really—to say it out loud. Say my name. Please say my name.
She doesn't. She just drops his hand and says, "I hope you enjoyed your first day."
He withholds any comments on the specifics of what she just asked, and instead says, "Girl, what you did was freaking insane. It was like Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon levels of unreal."
Livia laughs lightly, beginning to undo her dark blonde bun. "I am glad you liked it."
"Seriously though, I think physics would denote that what you did wasn't possible."
A small chuckle. She turns towards the mirror, pulling her hair tie out. "The impossible happens all the time here."
"I don't think you're getting me. It wasn't possible."
She goes still, and turns back to him. Her face is blank. She looks… caught. He's dead serious for a second, and he knows she can see that.
Then he smiles.
"Great show," he says, and goes to leave.
He's all geared up for a sort of quietly dramatic exit, leaving her with an incomplete thought that she can mull over, but she suddenly springs up and intercepts him. "Wait!" she says, all traces of a smile gone from her face. She looks worried. She looks… sad.
"What?" Shawn asks—in a hushed tone, because the door is still open and he's immediately on high alert, hoping that she's about to give him some helpful information.
She pulls the door shut, and then stands there for a moment, seeming unsure of what to say. But after a short pause, she blurts, "Are you like me?"
Like you? This question of hers, uttered with such urgency, only serves to plant a million more inside his own head. What could she possibly mean by that?
After a few seconds of staring at her with his brows drawn together, he opens his mouth to reply, but that is the moment her door swings open and there stands the man she calls Master.
He is wearing black trousers, a white T-shirt, and a dark grey suit jacket. His sunglasses sit atop his disgustingly neat hair. Shawn has not seen him all day. He wonders where he's been hanging out.
Smiling calmly, the man says, "I see you two have met."
Shawn glances at Livia. Her eyes are wide as she looks back and forth between them.
Shawn doesn't know what she meant by her question, but it's clear it's very important to her. "Hey man, good to see you, but we were in the middle of a conversation, so…"
"It can wait," the man says scathingly, meeting Shawn's eyes with deliberation, his own saying Don't test me. "Do be decent and give Livia a bit of privacy."
Shawn doesn't break eye contact. The man's eyes are like two burning coals in his face. Shawn half-expects to see smoke eking out.
"What is your name?" he asks in a voice that forbids anything but a direct and truthful answer.
He was half-planning on following up with an equally serious "What is your quest?" but the man's so-called answer is a hand clapped onto his shoulder and the words "I trust you enjoyed your first day?"
"The food was great, and the fire-breathers would make a dragon envious; there's just one aspect I'm not so much sold on," Shawn evenly replies after a moment. He blinks. What just happened? Wasn't there something important he wanted to know?
"You will get used to life with us," the man says certainly, as if this conversation is perfectly normal. "If you will come this way, we will show you where you will be staying during the nights."
Shawn glances at the acrobat, who seems to have developed a deep fascination with the wall next to her. She looks up when he speaks, though. "Nice meeting you, Livia," he says, offering a crooked smile.
She returns the gesture, and replies, "And you, Arashk."
Again, he frowns, but elects not to say anything this time. He just turns and steps outside.
The man standing in front of him looks nothing like the one who has orchestrated all this; he is tall, and pale, and his muscular arms are covered with tattoos. Shawn recognizes him from earlier; he was lifting some ridiculous weights, and members of the audience.
Shawn stops short, looks left and right, but does not see the man he's looking for. He glances at the closed door behind him. Did he stay inside? "Where'd…" He pauses, not sure what name to use. "…he go?"
The tall man shrugs, and says, "He asked me to show you to your room. This way." He turns and starts walking.
Shawn has to hurry to catch up. "So," he says conversationally after a few seconds, "what's your name? I saw you performing earlier; great stuff."
"Terrence," the man answers shortly.
"Ah," Shawn says, unsure of how to continue the conversation (if it could be called that at such an early stage). But awkward silence is not the Shawn Spencer way. "I saw a strongman on TV once," he continues. "He pulled a giant semi like thirty feet or something crazy like that using nothing but chalk on his bare hands. It was nerve-wracking. Beautiful piece of cinema. He wasn't wearing a shirt. Do you like activate your muscle powers when you take your shirt off or are you just taking advantage of any well-deserved opportunity to show off your guns? Speaking of guns, is there anybody around here who shoots himself—or herself—out of a cannon? Because I haven't seen any of that and if you don't have that act I'd like to put in a request. I think I could make lots of good requests."
"You certainly like to talk," Terrence mutters as he comes to a stop next to a train car with a plain-looking white exterior. He gestures towards it, saying, "Here it is," and tossing Shawn a key, and walks off immediately after his job is done.
Shawn blinks in mild surprise at his abruptness, but refocuses his attention on his apparent new living quarters. He opens the door and slips the key in his pocket.
The interior is completely plain. A tiny bed is situated against the white wall across from the door, and next to it is a protrusion in the wall with one door on one side of it and another door on the other. At the far end, across from the second door, is an oven with a few cabinets above it and a small counter next to it. By the counter is a dresser, on top of which sits a microwave. Shawn walks over to the further door and opens it. A puny bathroom.
The other door is more interesting.
It's a closet, and it's already filled. There are several plain, practical outfits, similar to the one he's wearing now. A few pairs of jeans, khaki pants and shorts, plain T-shirts and collared shirts and polos. That's where the mundane and everyday stops.
The remainder of the closet space is filled up with robes, vests, and baggy pants. Robes of deep, rich colors and patterns of varying intricacy. The vests are just as interesting to examine, and most have a matching shirt to wear underneath—all of which are boring against the vests. The pants are rather plain in comparison as well, although a few have very impressive belts hanging with them. They all look expensive and exotic. Many pieces of clothing are trimmed with gold, and they are all soft to the touch.
Shawn looks through them in wonder, and pulls one robe out at random. It's a deep brown with gold trimming. A cloak of a similar color scheme hangs with it.
Shawn wishes for a mirror—at first just to hold it up against him and see how it looks, but then he realizes that he needs to see something familiar, even if it's just his own face. Because he actually opens his mouth to make a reference to Gus, but snaps it shut on remembering.
He tosses the robe in a heap on the closet floor, not caring how expensive it is—actually, strike that; he hopes it's a priceless antique.
He flips the light off, kicks off his strange shoes, and drops himself into the bed.
