For those of you wondering what the ever-loving crap is going on, just remember, I did warn you that this would be weird. And let me tell you now, things are just going to escalate from here. :)

Is This Not Reality—Excellent questions. Most of this story is going to be from Shawn's point of view. Later on you will learn a bit about what everyone else is and has been up to during this time, but for now, it's all Shawn.

The answer to your second question is "now." But seriously—I can't promise I will update with much regularity, but I will say I'm trying to space each chapter a few weeks apart. Don't worry, I have no intention of abandoning this tale.


Shawn doesn't know what time it is when he's rudely awakened, but his internal alarm clock definitely would have remained silent for several more hours. He glances through the tiny window on the opposite wall, sees sunlight bleeding through the trees, and surmises that he's literally being roused at the crack of dawn. He dearly hopes that this isn't typical in traveling freak show life.

He rolls over and peers at whomever was just shouting at him—some guy he thinks he saw a few times the day before. "We are about to leave," the guy says, "and he wants you to ride with him for today's journey."

Shawn has no desire to ride with him, especially not all day. "Rain check," he mutters, rolling back over and putting his pillow over his head.

"He insists," the young man replies readily, and Shawn sighs, but it's muffled by the pillow. He doesn't know how much patience this strange man (he resolutely refuses to call him Master, even in his head) has, and he's not about to test it. Not yet.

He steps into his slipper-shoes and steps outside. It's evident that everybody is ready to go; conversation is audible through the walls of the train cars, and a couple of people are standing right outside their doors, obviously wondering what the holdup is. Shawn wonders, in horror, if rising when the sun does is considered "sleeping in" here.

He's led to a train car, which he steps inside after a moment of brief hesitation. Inside there is a desk and a couple of chairs, and behind the desk sits the orchestrator of all this.

"Mr. Ronaldo," the man says, smiling, and gesturing for Shawn to sit.

Shawn does, contemplating what to say all the while. Once he's seated, he settles on, "Is there any food around here?"

"You will have a mini fridge in your room soon," the man says.

Shawn blinks. "What, really?"

"Absolutely."

"That's pretty awesome," Shawn has to admit.

"I am glad you think so. I am also very glad to see that you are settling in."

"Yeah," Shawn says dryly. "You could call it that."

It is at this moment that the room around them gives a slight rumble, and Shawn instinctively grasps at the chair he's sitting on. After a few seconds, the floor starts pulling away from him, and the train begins to move. Something inside Shawn says he ought to be excited at the prospect of riding in a train, and it's pretty unfortunate that he has to be preoccupied like this.

"And we're off," the man says.

Shawn does not respond. He has nothing to say. Really, he just wants to leave. But to do that in the most permanent way possible, he has to stay, gather information. So he waits for the man to start giving it out.

"Today I am going to make it clear what is expected of you," the man says.

Shawn raises his eyebrows. "Good luck, buddy. The people I know are very good at that and it doesn't actually make a difference in my behavior."

"Oh, don't worry, we'll fix that," the man says, quite happily. "Now, to begin with the basics: your wardrobe. Have you looked inside your closet?"

"Tacky," Shawn says by way of answer.

The man's smile dims a notch. Shawn congratulates himself. "You will be permitted to choose your own outfits, but they must come from that closet. You may have noticed that your bed doubles as a storage area; there are some items for you to wear underneath there as well. I shall give you some pointers before your first day."

"Yippee," Shawn mutters.

"Do not be that way, Mr. Ronaldo," the man chides. "You shall have fun with this, I am sure. Now, the second note—oh, I have not yet told you what your 'act' is to be called, have I?" The man grins, and leans forward, obviously quite enthused to be informing Shawn of this. "It shall be 'Arashk Ronaldo's Tent of Days.'"

That stupid-ass name again. "Days?"

He nods. "Days past, days forgotten, days yet to come."

Shawn hates to admit it, but that does have a nice ring to it. Of course, nothing will ever beat "Shawn Spencer, Head Psychic of the SBPD."

He says nothing, and the man continues, "You will stay inside your tent during carnivals unless given direct permission to leave. You will be polite to all patrons. You will speak to them of nothing except their fortunes. You will not tell them anything I wouldn't like. Each reading will last a few minutes."

"Am I allowed to eat in the tent?" Shawn asks seriously.

The man blinks. "We'll see."

"That means no."

"It means 'we'll see.'"

Shawn, reminded way too much of his dad, almost grins despite himself. "Will the tent be well lit?"

"Probably not."

"Soundproof? Sometimes I sing to myself. I get really into it."

"No."

"Good; the world deserves to hear what I have to offer. Will there be a bouncer outside the tent?"

"No."

"I've never just sat at a table and told fortunes professionally before. What if I don't get any psychic vibes from a person?"

"Then Detective Juliet O'Hara will be the first to pay the price."

Shawn's smile freezes. He stares, suddenly feeling a little sick. The man smiles pleasantly and says, "Have you any more questions, or may I continue?"


It's the most unpleasant car trip of Shawn's entire life—including the one all the way to Denver that his father forced him on when he was nineteen, which is sure saying something.

It's amazing how much instruction the man has to give him. Well, honestly, most of it is just light chitchat; the man goes off on tangents easily. Shawn probably speaks more than his fair share as well. Of course he doesn't want to endanger any of his friends or family, but he just can't help himself. On a good day he's talking whenever he's thinking, which is all the time. When he's nervous he talks even more.

After a good long conversation, the man seems contented, and goes to get snacks for both of them. Uncharacteristically, Shawn isn't feeling hungry. He wishes to be left alone, but it doesn't happen for… far too long. There's no way for him to tell time. The man finally stands, and asks if Shawn ("Mr. Ronaldo") has any remaining questions.

"Yeah," Shawn says, in a voice that's quiet but very firm. "What's your name?"

Less than a minute later, he remembers his own anticipation as the man licked his lips to speak. He remembers readying his mental pen and clipboard. He even remembers the concentrated scribbling on that clipboard, the determination to not lose this very important note. But, less than a minute later, when he looks again at the clipboard, it is blank.