I just discovered that review replies are a thing (sometimes I know what I'm doing with technology, sometimes very much not), so I shall likely be utilizing that in the future. And if you receive a reply to a review that you posted a while ago, that's why. Just a heads up.


They travel to their next site that night. The following morning ushers in a long and hard day of setup. Of course, setup is decidedly not Shawn's job, but he still manages to insert himself into the process, annoying a little under half of the workers and amusing the rest.

He goes to lunch having made about five new friends and three new enemies (one of whom is a tall man with a perpetual scowl whom he very nearly called "Lassie" at one point), and gathered little new information other than a pretty consistent theory that the Master has a mild case of OCD, which he files away but suspects won't be that helpful.

Quite honestly, he's been pretty distracted most of the time. That whole encounter with Livia made him realize (not for the first time, and not that it's ever stuck any of the numerous other times in his life he's had this thought) that he needs to think before he speaks. Forget breaking social conventions; he could get himself into serious trouble.

He could get his friends into serious trouble.

He dodged a bullet with Livia, and isn't really feeling up to doing cleanup like that again. He's allowing himself to inject little bits of observation into his questions, but only as far as what he's actually seen outside of the context of his abduction; for the most part, he tries to keep his inquiries simple and to the point. It certainly feels much safer, and he hasn't had any more problems with people appearing confused or suspicious.

But no matter how much he holds back, there is a ball of ice that has formed in his gut, settled down, and apparently filed for permanent residence. No matter how many times he sics the feds on that ball of ice, it always finds some legal loophole that allows it to stay. It's a constant presence that progressively chills the entirety of his insides, and a few minutes after he disengages himself from subtle interrogations in the name of food, it suddenly and inexplicably grows spikes. With barbs, no less. He feels like he can't move with any degree of freedom, lest it puncture some vital organ.

The analogy is way apter than he's comfortable with; there is something eating away at him physically, to the point where he feels like he's going to be sick. It doesn't even seem to be drawing from his emotional state, which he's managed to keep pretty regularly modulated considering the circumstances; it's an entity all its own.

He hides it, of course. He has to. But it definitely affects his information-gathering skills.

Fortunately his food-eating skills don't need that much concentration, and he even manages to enjoy the burger and nachos he has for lunch. But after that, it's back into the fray.

The barbs have melted, but he still feels sick.

He does his very best to ignore it, to tell himself that, while he's not out of the woods yet, there's nothing he should reasonably be immediately concerned about. He keeps an eye out for the Master, whose mannerisms would hopefully be able to tell him something, but he doesn't seem to be around. Part of him is glad. The other part wishes he'd come out of the woodwork so he can get a solid sense of how worried he should actually be.


The next day's a workday, and he comes out of it absurdly proud of how much easier it's gotten to pick up on details consistently. He was always good at it, of course. His dad made sure of that from a very early and dysfunctional age. But it was usually more a question of how much he could figure out given a situation. Now, the given is a person. No setting, no interactions with other people, and he has to come up with enough at least near-accurate information to fill about three minutes for each and every person who walks into his tent.

It was hard at first. But with this constant practice over the length of a normal workday, it's already become almost second nature.

At dinner the last few days, he's been either sitting with someone random and asking basic questions about the show, its history, and its setup, or just taking some food and eating alone in his room. Based on the information he's gathered with the former method, he's gotten a basic picture—no one's quite sure exactly how old the Master is, but the show's been around for almost twenty years, and he started it all on his own when he was pretty young. He's very mysterious, and doesn't say much about himself—and of the information that people do give Shawn, most of it seems to conflict. One of the assistants even claims to have heard that he inherited the show from his father and replaced the entire staff and cast, though most seem to agree that it came from him and him alone. Nobody knows for sure if he has any family, or where he's from. Nobody knows where he goes when he disappears every few days. But nobody seems to have anything against him either. He's widely trusted and liked. Shawn finds this irritating.

It's all been totally unsystematic, except that he tries to sit with someone different every time he dines outside his room. Often he sits at a table alone and waits until it's filled, letting the others decide who sits near him. But this time, he sees the impossible sword swallower, and he can't resist.

The man is biracial, he's pretty sure, with very dark hair just long enough to be tied back in a tight ponytail, and light brown skin. He turns slightly when Shawn takes a seat next to him, and Shawn immediately notices how deep-set his eyes are.

The man's holding a fork between his thumb and index finger and his mouth is full of salad, but he waves his three free fingers at Shawn when he sits down. "Hey," Shawn says amiably, staring at his large bowl filled with little more than lettuce and fruits and wondering how a person can survive on that.

He goes to pick up his chicken sandwich, and feels a twinge in his right wrist. That's been bothering him periodically since noon yesterday—and it's weird, but when it flares up, it never seems to have anything to do with his movement. It comes to the forefront at random times, whether or not he's doing anything with those muscles.

As soon as the sword swallower finishes chewing he offers his hand to Shawn and says, "I don't believe we've met formally. Sebastian Jaeger."

Shawn puts his hand in the outstretched one, and as Sebastian grips tightly and shakes firmly, strange tingles skitter across Shawn's skin. He blinks, staring at the large hand encasing his own, trying to remember when the last time he touched someone was. He usually touches people's hands during readings, he supposes, but… this is different. This is welcome.

"Shawn Spencer," he says.

"Shawn? Good to meet you." Sebastian releases his hand, and Shawn had planned on commenting on the impressiveness of his handshake, but he's again distracted by the use of his real name. He's been using it to introduce himself pretty regularly, and while no one seems to remember it—just yesterday Terrence called him "Arashk"—no mishaps have occurred, and he hasn't been confronted about it.

Suddenly thinking it might be nice to return the favor, no matter how much it might go over this guy's head, he says, "And you, Sebastian."

Before he can continue, the man says, "You're the psychic, right?"

Shawn nods.

"How's that going so far?" He takes another bite of salad.

"Really well," he says after a pause. "It's fun to see how much shock and awe I can induce in the span of regular workday." As he speaks, another guy joins the thus far empty table next to theirs—an older man Shawn has noticed cleaning up from time to time. He looks like he's pushing sixty, and while he generally seems pretty spry, he definitely sometimes seems to be struggling with movement. Shawn wonders how long he's been with the show. He hopefully could offer some helpful insight.

Sebastian chuckles, bringing him back to the conversation. "I'll bet," he says. "I know I make people cringe like you wouldn't believe, but I'm usually a little preoccupied during their initial reactions. Wish I could just watch them watch me like you can. Unless the visions are really intense?"

Part of him wants to ask about the sword swallowing (and that part is split in half between wanting to know about medical problems and quick fixes, and just general fascination with how a person comes to decide he wants to shove blades down his gullet for a living), but Sebastian's given him an opportunity to keep talking about what he chooses, to ask questions. "Sometimes they are, yes," he says, "and it can be problematic in taking snapshots to enjoy later, but I can normally tell how freaked out people are by how quickly they leave."

Sebastian laughs out loud, smile lines bursting across his face. "What, do they actually run out?"

"Sometimes, yeah," Shawn says, a smile rising, unbidden, inside him.

"That must be highly entertaining, friend. I don't know if I'd want to go in if I were waiting in line after a person who exited running."

"I do notice pauses at times," Shawn says, and, wanting to get the conversation back on track, he goes on, "There are some things I notice even outside the context of the workday. It's very interesting around here."

"Oh yeah?" Sebastian asks, sounding fascinated. "What kinds of things do you notice?"

He's definitely much readier to believe than Terrence, Shawn notes. "Well," he says after a few seconds, carefully constructing what he'll say in his head—this is important, don't mess up—"I certainly get a lot of vibes from the Master."

"Yeah? Like what?"

Totally unsuspecting of anything. He supposes the best psychopaths are the ones that don't seem like it… Maybe this isn't a good idea after all.

Well, no turning back now. "There is much about him that is shrouded in shadow," Shawn continues carefully. "Much that he doesn't want us to know."

"Yeah, that's something you come to know about him even without psychic visions," Sebastian says lightly. For a moment Shawn wonders if it's meant as a jab, but Sebastian doesn't even seem aware of that as an interpretation option. "You get anything specific? I probably shouldn't ask, it feels like an invasion of privacy, but I can't help being curious."

Shawn's heartrate has quickened noticeably in the last few seconds of conversation. This matters. He could make a difference for himself here. But he's gotta be damn sure it's a difference in the right direction.

"Something about his emotions is out of whack," he says, slowly, after at least a five-second pause. "He isn't affected as strongly by those of others as most are—sometimes not at all. He… He lacks empathy. It's a bit frightening. Have you ever noticed this?"

Sebastian wipes some dressing from his mouth, his brow furrowed in puzzlement. "You're talking about the Master?"

"Yes. He hides it from most, but… there is something dark in that man."

Sebastian's looking genuinely concerned now. No subtle glances over his shoulder, no whispered "I've noticed it too." This isn't getting him anywhere. Except to plant seeds of uncertainty in an obviously trusting man's heart—under false pretenses, but for the right reasons. Which he supposes would be worth it, if only he could be sure that this won't go back to the Master.

"I don't understand," the sword swallower says slowly. "The Master has never been anything but kind to me. I think you have him pegged wrong… I mean, certainly he has things he doesn't tell us, but don't we all?"

Shawn nods, trying to get along. "You may be right. All I know is there is something I detect in him that makes me uneasy."

"That's vague as hell, friend. I mean, I don't think you're lying, but don't go saying things like that unless you have something concrete."

Feeling rather sheepish, and trying to make that clear by his expression—maybe if he acts apologetic enough, Sebastian will be more likely to truly consider his words but not tell anyone about them—Shawn nods. "You're right, I'm sorry." He itches to say something else, probably beginning with "but," but he holds back. This is the best place to end right now.

Sebastian stands up, and Shawn's heart gives a single thud, but he notices the man's empty bowl and realizes he's simply finished eating. "Well, I'm glad to have finally met you, Shawn," Sebastian says, and he sounds like he really means it. "Take care, all right?"

Shawn nods. His name's stuck for this long in Sebastian's head… He suppresses a sigh. There are too many things to be worried about at once. "You too, Seb."

Once his new sword swallower friend is gone, Shawn has nothing left to focus on but his sandwich. As he picks it up to take another bite, his eyes flicker over to the old man, who appears to be falling asleep over his own sandwich and soup. As he chews, Shawn contemplates waking him up to ask a couple questions.

He's just about to do it, too, when he looks around to do a quick scan of the surrounding tables, to see if anyone's watching or anyone interesting has sat down since he did, and his gaze falls on the Master.

About four tables in front of him.

Staring right at him.

A chill immediately shoots down his spine. A plate of crumbs sits on the table in front of the man. He has clearly been there for some time. His expression is intense in a subtle way, but completely unruffled. The white button-down he wears is spotless; he has a beige napkin tucked into the front of it, which he removes and begins to fold up without breaking eye contact with Shawn.

Shawn sits there, frozen in place, hands pressed against the table, body turned towards the old man. The words meant to rouse him die on his lips. There's no way he knew what we were talking about, he tries to tell himself. Come on, Sh… S… Spencer. What are you so worried about?

He desperately wants to wrest himself away from this beyond uncomfortable staring contest, but there's nowhere else to look. And after a certain amount of time passes, it becomes a matter of personal integrity. And… and he can't shake the feeling that it's time to abort the mission, no matter how ridiculous it is to think the guy could actually know what he was trying to accomplish with Sebastian.

He continues reassuring himself that the Master is doing this just as a scare tactic, and it even starts to work. Then the man's eyes suddenly flicker away from his, and Shawn actually feels a brief but definite sense of triumph.

Until he follows the Master's line of sight, and realizes who he's looking at.

He didn't notice the empty seat with the empty plate next to the Master, but when Livia sits down and fills it, the man turns on the charm. He smiles, and says something to her that Shawn, based on his feeble grasp on lip-reading, interprets to be Did you find anything? Livia puts down the small bowl she's carrying and gives some answer in the affirmative.

The conversation continues, and it becomes clear that Livia was originally sitting with the three other people at the table when the Master chose to join them. Shawn guesses he doesn't usually do this, just based on his mannerisms and those of the others at the table, but he chose to today, because… because…

He leans back to slouch in his chair, leaving the old guy alone. He is certain beyond any shadow of a doubt that the Master is sending him a message here. And that message is that… he knows.

He knows.


He walks back to his room with dragging steps, unbuttoning his vest as he goes. This day… certainly could have gone better. Those words just keep circulating in his mind, doing nothing to help further his knowledge or lift his mood, but at least they provide a distraction from thinking too deeply about all this. He doesn't have the energy.

So Livia told the Master about what he said to her. Probably because he asked. How he would have known to is lost on him, unless… he had previously told Livia something that convinced her to come back to him with reports about the show's newest member? If that's the case, she's probably not the only one. She can't be.

He reaches the train car that contains his room, for the first time since this morning, and pulls the key from his oversized pocket. As he inserts it slowly into the lock, he's going through a detailed review of all the interactions he's had with the other cast and crew members over the last several days, trying to spot any tells, any reason to suspect any individual of working directly against his escape efforts, even if they weren't aware of it.

It's a very involved job that he doesn't currently have the energy to do as thoroughly as he needs to.

He closes the door behind him and pulls his vest off, letting it drop to the floor. As he flips the light on and turns towards his bed, his attention is immediately drawn to the obvious change in his normally changeless room. Two sheets of paper have been placed side by side on his bed. They appear to be a news article, printed off a website he's used multiple times before. Quite often in fact; it's all Santa Barbara news. The title:

"TWO MYSTERIOUSLY INJURED DURING POLICE INVESTIGATION; FOUL PLAY SUSPECTED."