Disclaimer I felt ought to be said while I was writing this chapter: I have no firsthand experience with circus life and am really trying not to perpetuate stereotypes or be disrespectful. I do try to do research so as to make accurate portrayals, but if any of you notices anything off or has any corrections, please let me know so I can fix it. Just remember that I am trying.
About the length: this chapter and the next were originally supposed to be one. But it got ridiculously long, and while I don't mind being irregular with my chapter lengths, it got to the point where it was maybe too much of just meeting characters and having longish conversations. And a good stopping point did present itself in the middle (yeah, this chapter was written very much out of order), so I took advantage of it. I'm probably going to put the next chapter up pretty soon though.
About the aforementioned characters: if anyone's getting overwhelmed by the number of OCs in this story, just rest assured that the focus will always be on Shawn. And the others will come in later. I can't guarantee just how long it will take for them to do so, but they will have their time in the sun.
I talk too much. Moving on. But last note—merry Christmas! And if you don't celebrate Christmas, I wish you joy anyway.
Shawn has to check that paper far more often than he would like in the following few days. It becomes his ritual to make it the first thing he sees in the morning and last thing he sees in the night. But it never seems to stick. It's like a Band-Aid you had on for weeks and then you go to slightly rip off a corner to readjust it and the whole darn thing comes peeling off and you'd never know it was ever effective as an adhesive at all. He just wasn't aware that that was also a property of names.
It's not that Arashk Ronaldo is becoming his natural default. No, it's more just that as Shawn Spencer fades from the position, slowly and inexplicably but surely, when he gropes around in search of something to call himself, the name that all evidence would point to—everyone around here calls him by it regularly, he sees it every day on the sign outside his tent—is the first one he arrives at, given the lack of anything instinctive, as names should be.
He's pretty sure it's been a week and a day since he woke up in that truck. A week and a day since he saw Santa Barbara, since he spoke to Gus or Jules or Dad. He pictures what they're doing right now. According to the cheap alarm clock next to his bed, it's just past 7am; Gus is probably on his way to work, listening to that lame station with only violin music that he invariably has on whenever he's upset about something. Jules is definitely already at the precinct, just finishing her morning coffee and going over the case file for his disappearance for the ninety-second time. He sees the bags under her eyes, the flyaway hairs that she keeps unconsciously brushing out of her face. Dad didn't sleep for more than two hours cumulatively last night. He's sitting on his living room couch, trying to hold back from going up to Shawn's old room again and just lying down where he used to sleep.
Shawn blinks, realizing he's been staring into his closet for a solid five minutes. He still doesn't move though—other than to glance over at the drawer that's currently making up for whatever is going on with his brain right now. He stares at it for about ten seconds, tells himself You don't need it, Shawn, and returns his gaze to the vests in front of him.
"I'm Shawn Spencer," he says, softly and very deliberately, "Head Psychic of the SBPD, and this is my partner, Sir Reginald Humphreyshire III, Jr."
The third… junior? asks some nondescript voice in Shawn's mind.
And then comes the reply, in a voice that's all too familiar: We The Thirds have a long and proud history. Got a problem?
He almost feels a smile rising inside him, but it doesn't quite make it past the cognitive stage.
He exits the train car clutching his stomach in hunger, reminded yet again why he always sleeps through breakfast if he can. It's a short walk to the food area, and when he emerges, bearing one last sausage link, it's an even shorter one to the training area.
Most acts require practice, and since his doesn't, the best and only source of entertainment available to him has been to watch those of others. He's seen at least part of all of them by now; some have already begun to get dull, others haven't. He's kept an eye out for Livia, but she's been surprisingly scarce considering the relatively small number of performers here.
The first face he spots that he can put a name to is that of Terrence, the strongman. He's doing what Shawn is pretty sure is called a deadlift, and he shudders to think how much weight he's currently hoisting into the air.
Shawn walks over and stands there, very comfortably conspicuous, watching as the weights slowly go up until Terrence's bulging arms are as straight as it gets. He holds the position for a few seconds, glancing at Shawn, who waves. And slowly but steadily, the strongman begins to bring them back down.
Shawn has already started to fidget by the time the weights hit the ground, but when they do, he bursts into enthusiastic applause. Terrence straightens and turns to face him, and Shawn's hands slow. The guy is easily a head taller than he is. His biceps look hard as rock.
"Very good," Shawn says. "I'd ask for an encore but honestly just that one time was a little too much for my nerves."
"I do this every day," Terrence says slowly.
"Ah yes. But you see, I don't watch it every day. You can't know how exhausting it is."
The strongman stares at him for a few more seconds. Shawn notices his eyes are a strikingly pale blue. He also notices a skull among all those tattoos on his arms. He decides that's enough noticing for now.
Finally, Terrence reaches to the ground, picks up the large water bottle there, and takes a swig. As he wipes his mouth with one hand, he says, "What was your name again?"
Suddenly excited, Shawn leans forward. "Shawn. Shawn Spencer," he replies, savoring the taste of the letters in his mouth.
Terrence cocks his head, eyebrows knitted. "Really? I was way off."
As he replaces his water on the ground, Shawn waits anxiously, half hoping for more information and half wondering what information there could be to hope for. Finally he thinks to comment, "Everyone around here is. It's fine."
"Really?" Terrence asks again. "It's a pretty common name."
"What, mine?" Shawn asks, crossing his fingers.
"Yeah. There are plenty of Shawns."
He exhales, searing this moment into his memory as thoroughly as he can. He never realized what a comfort it was to hear your own name said out loud—how reassuring it was. And it might be some time before he can experience it again. He has to enjoy this warmth while he can.
"Yeah, it's a pretty strange phenomenon," he says. "In fact I'm not sure there's a scientific precedence." He hesitates, and then, not sure whether he'll regret this later, he asks, "What did you think my name was?"
Terrence reaches for a smaller one-hand weight that Shawn probably still couldn't lift with all his muscles combined. "I can't remember. Something weird." He brings it up to his shoulder, and back down. "Must have been somebody else."
Shawn stands there biting his lip, trying to think of other questions to ask that might help him, but mostly distracted by that warm feeling that's only just beginning to fade. The opportunity slips away when Terrence says, voice strained slightly with exertion, "You're the psychic, right?"
Shawn bobs his head. "Yessir, that's me. Brand new round these parts."
"Bet you get asked this a lot, but what can you tell about me?"
Shawn glances, not as subtly as he'd like, back to Terrence's tattoos. Images flash through his mind as he picks out individual aspects of the tangled web of ink on his arms—a rose, a hawk, the word "stop," a golden ring, an anchor, that skull again—all connected in an intricate swirling design in dark grey. It doesn't tell him much. Quite honestly, he doesn't have the energy to try to work through it all. Though guesses at the inspiration for each image do flit through his mind—for some reason he keeps picturing some woman telling Terrence he moves too fast through life and needs a reminder to slow down, hence the "stop." Seems like a reasonable guess, but he's not about to bank on it being right.
He meets Terrence's eyes again, realizing he's off his game if he's so obviously grasping at straws immediately after the question is posed. "I don't think you want me violating your privacy," he tries. "I don't like to do readings on non-clients without their permission. And, like, a deep understanding of how my readings work."
Terrence shrugs, not looking surprised. "Fine. If you're a fake, it'll come out soon enough."
Shawn freezes, and looks back to his face, but Terrence isn't even looking at him anymore. His eyes are closed in effort as he continues to bring the weight up to his shoulder, then down to his waist, then up to his shoulder, then down to his waist.
Shawn tries to look normal, but his heart is pounding in his chest and suddenly he feels a little lightheaded. What if this man, this "Master"… finds out he's not the real deal?
He's going to have to be good. Better than good. He's going to have to be perfect.
"So," Terrence says, and Shawn hears a clank as he sets the weight down, and realizes he's already completed a set. "What made you want to join the show?"
Shawn takes about one second to contemplate how to answer that before Terrence, apparently thinking in the lull that he ought to give more information, goes on, "I mean, you look pretty normal. Could probably have a pretty normal life."
He blinks, wondering if that's a typical observation to just express to someone in the context of freak show—or circus, or whatever this actually is—life. After a moment he replies, "I take offense at that, I look fantastic—though I do apologize for my hair. I haven't been able to get my hands on my usual shampoo in the last week."
"But you've only been here for that long," Terrence says.
"Yes?"
Terrence pauses, brow creasing in mild puzzlement. "You didn't bring any with you?"
Shawn shrugs, trying to come up with something unobtrusive to explain this thing that really should be very simple. "Yeah, I, ah, didn't have a lot of time to pack."
"You left in a hurry?" There are still questions in Terrence's face, but after a moment his expression smooths over with deliberation and he says, "All right."
As the strongman walks a couple paces away to a rack of weights, Shawn is left standing there, registering that Terrence didn't want to pry or be insensitive. Maybe freak show people just don't typically talk about non-freak show life, and Terrence didn't intend to veer into that territory. He doesn't have a good enough handle on the way things run around here to be sure yet. His fist clenches in frustration. No, Terrence, pry. Pry!
There is a light tap in the middle of his back, just beneath his neck, and he very nearly jumps out of his skin as he whips around. Livia appears to nearly jump out of her skin too.
"Damn, Liv," he exclaims, "go on and give me a heart attack, why don't you. I feel like Anthony Hopkins from Meet Joe Black. Or like… basically every single character in that movie except Brad Pitt. I think? Is he that specific brand of creepy? I don't know, it's kind of long and I get distracted."
Her eyes are laughing. "I thought you were a psychic," she says, mouth curving upward. "You didn't sense me coming till just now?"
He stares at her, a smile spreading across his own face, but he doesn't really feel it. He hasn't seen her since her room after that first show, over a week ago—the only time he ever spoke with her. She looks very different without all that stage makeup on. Prettier, he thinks. Her hair's down, almost straight but poofing out with a little volume, and reaches just past her shoulders. She's wearing a simple white tank top and black leggings. Her feet are bare.
Shawn opens his mouth to say something, but she speaks before he can: "I'm sure you'll be able to go on a milk run in the next few days."
A milk run…? Crap. She heard the thing about speed-packing. Well, it could be worse.
"Just ask the Master; nothing's happening today, and he's an accommodating man."
Accommodating? Admittedly, Shawn knows frustratingly little about the guy at this point, but that is certainly not a word he'd use to describe him.
"So where have you been hiding this past week, Livia?" he asks in what he intends to be an offhand manner.
Something in her expression changes. It's very subtle, and he probably wouldn't notice if he weren't looking for it. But her eyes suddenly become more guarded; she immediately starts twisting the simple silver band on her index finger. Her eyes flicker away from his briefly, and though they return quickly, it's enough.
"Here and there," she says, voice modulated regularly. "I've been catching up on sleep lately, and I was a little sick for a couple days. It's been quiet. Nice." She pauses for a moment, and her graceful hands drop again to her sides. "How about you, Arashk? You left so eagerly; has the show proved to be everything you hoped it would?"
"Well it's certainly been entertaining," he says carefully.
"How do you like your clients?"
"Some of them have been very interesting people." He's trying to decide which questions would be best to ask first, and which ones can be saved for another time. It's hard; there are a lot to choose from.
"In a way, it must be more exhausting to get so up close and personal with your clients than it is to fly about on the trapezes." She smiles. "I don't envy you."
You really shouldn't. "Nah, it's cool. Speaking of the trapezes though—be honest with me, do you use hidden wires or any tricks? I mean it's obvious you're crazy talented, but… some of the things you did…" He blinks, suddenly remembering the last time he spoke to her about this. What she said. Are you like me?
He continues before she can answer: "What… what did you mean?"
She draws her eyebrows together, but he sees a tentative clarity in her eyes. "What do you mean?" she counters.
He lowers his chin but maintains eye contact, showing her he means business, but he keeps his eyebrows raised, trying to still appear friendly. "I think you know," he says quietly.
It's immediately clear that she does. After a pause, she says dismissively, "Oh, the question I asked you? I thought you might be an acrobat like myself. I hadn't heard the role our newest member would be playing, and I thought it may be the reason for your coming to see me."
He raises an eyebrow, glancing down at himself. "I look like I have an acrobat's body to you?"
She giggles. "Not particularly, which is why I was curious enough to ask."
He stares at her searchingly. She seems sure enough now, but a moment ago she was quite clearly hiding something… and the tone she adopted when she actually asked the question was more than mere curiosity. It told a story of desperation, of heartache. He just… doesn't know what that story is.
She's about to say something else, and the opportunity will be lost, for who knows how long, and he says without thinking, "Is he making you say that?"
Her brows furrow immediately and completely into a genuine expression of confusion, and her eyes widen into a genuine expression of alarm—a very not good combination for him at the moment. "What? He?"
Crap crap crap. "Never mind, forget it. Uh…" He grasps for something else to say, anything else, before she can ask what he means.
"I don't know what you mean."
Dammit. Well, it's not a question, but it's as good as one. "It's nothing, forget I asked."
"Arashk… are you talking about the Master?"
In too deep, in too deep. He opts for the works-when-not-questioned "total misunderstanding" tactic, and says, "What?" punctuating it with a laugh that ought to sound real to the untrained ear. "Oh man, we are talking about completely different things. Wow." As an afterthought, his hand goes up to his head, and he presses his fingers into his temple, breaking eye contact to stare into the distance.
And that's what seems to finally make her relax. A look of false understanding spreads across her face. Oh, he's talking about something I can't see, he almost hears her think. Best leave it, I suppose.
That's right, Liv. No need to worry. No need to tell anyone at all about this.
"Are you okay?" she asks after a moment, and he realizes that he went as far as closing his eyes. He doesn't open them, though.
"Yes…" he murmurs, not moving. "I just… I'm not sure what I'm sensing. I… may need a moment."
"Of course. Well, I'll see you around." The quiet—almost too quiet—sound of bare feet retreating lightly at a slightly-faster-than-comfortable pace starts up, and quickly fades. He counts to five after the footfalls leave his range of hearing, and opens his eyes.
That was almost very bad. And I still would've gotten exactly nothing from it.
He breathes out, trying to calm his rapidly beating heart, and drawing up a mental list of Things Livia Is: convinced of his good faith, mildly puzzled, quiet, acrobatically gifted to the point of impossibility, hiding something.
Not the most helpful list. But at least he has something to work towards. Or, since that method was obviously not nearly subtle enough, he has something to work toward working towards. It's gonna take some doing to even figure out a way to approach this, let alone piece together whatever information he'll eventually get from her to form something useful.
He hasn't been out here that long, but he deems it time to grab a couple more pieces of bacon as a snack, and retreat to his room to stare at the paper with his name on it for as long as it takes to feel better.
