Chapter Text
Ringmaster was, as all names, a misnomer.
It was his role in the show, and a role he performed well — a role he loved, with the same thrillsick fear of blinding stage lights.
He was the master of the show. He was the master of none. It was as simple as that.
The dancer was the star. Nikola, for now. She controlled the show and the troupe and the everything.
He ran the stage, he led the performers, and he called the crowd. Drew them in. Kept their attention. Any show must have an audience, and once he called them to their seats the dance would hold them fast.
He was, after all, very pretty. Charismatic. It was why he was allowed to keep his skin.
Allowed the time being, at any rate. All costumes must change. He wasn’t particularly eager — the process seemed an unpleasant one, and one he was glad to not remember. They hadn’t ever finished with him, not before he made his case and took on his role, and thankfully his clothes hid the scars with no trouble.
Still, unpleasant or no, it must be done. They would likely keep his shed costume around for use by others in the show (the dollmaker was a greedy one, always looking for more to hold in alleyways and hidden corners, and as a lure he would draw in plenty). He could wear it again, maybe, but it would never fit the same.
He was a part of the show; the ringmaster who was master of none. He would play that part in whichever costume he was told.
The whole place buzzed about costumes these days — Nikola was a finicky sort, and demanded only the best for her biggest performance.
He couldn’t blame her, of course. She needed to be well dressed to dance the world new, and there was no doubt she knew more about what was needed than him. Still, part of him doubted this was ideal. Skin so marred and mistreated, it’d never work. The scars alone made it nearly unusable.
His skin bore scars of its own now from the interrupted process the first time around, but otherwise it was flawless. Besides, they fell in the same places the others would cut into again. If they thought they couldn’t work around that when it came time for him to change costumes, they simply would have finished with him the first time.
Part of him wondered why he still internally shrank away from the change — yes, it would hurt, but so did anything worth doing. That done would mean he could be fully, truly part of the show, able to change his face and his name and his being at a whim. Ringmaster sounded lovely and tripped off the tongue like a falling acrobat, but who knew how something else would feel?
Until the day came for him to lose his original face, he wouldn’t worry about it.
Their new Archivist didn’t have the same luxury. He was here as nothing more than a mannequin for Nikola’s new costume, and wasn’t that funny?
A very loud mannequin, of course. One that complained and asked questions and shouted plenty. Didn’t he know that being quiet would make this easier for them all? Maybe, if he did as he was told, he could get his own role in the performance. Start low, just like the ringmaster had — maybe as a pitchman. He certainly talked enough for it. He wasn’t quite as pretty or charismatic, though, so the ringmaster wasn’t sure if he’d have the same success in rising the ranks from there and keeping his skin.
In the end, it didn’t matter. Nikola wanted to wear him. No, there was no place in the show for an Archivist.
He had no place in the show, but they still needed to keep the man alive. Alive, unharmed, all that. Bring food, bring water. Release his bonds every so often or change the placement. The normal drudgery of humans.
The ringmaster was sure he had to worry about things like food and water at some point. Right? It was difficult to think of anything back before dizzying moving colors, but it wasn’t as if he had reason to. Before was about those little things, annoying things, things he didn’t miss. He had a purpose here. A role. Whatever was before, he knew he didn’t have those, and here he did.
There was no going back after hearing crowds cheer at his command. All those eyes on him at the snap of his fingers, their screamlaughs heady and neon and matching his own in perfect harmony. Blinding.
It was with those spinning brightlight blinders filling his head that he almost walked into the troupe contortionist. She looked the same as ever — he often wondered if she was also allowed her own skin, or if she’d grown comfortable in a costume she’d picked up at some point.
He knew better than to ask. Him keeping his own as long as he had was a bit taboo around here, and something he never brought up when he could avoid it. Doing so meant bringing up that same teasing and needling about finally changing his, and he could only brush the others off for so long.
Eventually, they would lose patience with his hesitation. There was no reason to hasten that.
The contortionist dropped her legs down from the handstand he’d almost knocked into, and when her feet were planted, slowly rolled up to stand.
“Leave your eyes onstage?” she asked with a nudge to the gold epaulettes on his jacket. Performance attire, of course. Today’s event was a small one, but it was important to keep things functioning as normal even as Nikola made her preparations for the true performance.
He laughed. “Still in my head for now. No, I was just thinking about the show earlier.” Minutes ago, probably, but it wasn’t as if time meant much around here. Having to remember its flow in order to keep the Archivist well cared for was a learning curve for them all.
The contortionist’s round blue eyes lit up. “Anything fun tonight?”
She always preferred shows with larger crowds, but he thought this one might be exciting enough to sate her interest, “The guests were so loud, it was incredible. Nikola decided to test out the iron jaw tricks with them.” He grinned at the memory and the old fear still settled in his bones. “You know how she gets with audience participants.”
“Oh, that sounds fun. I tried to get the couriers to help me with another trick I wanted to practice, but apparently they had something to deliver.” Her nose scrunched with absolute symmetry.
He was sorry to add another disappointment on top of that. “I would help, but I’m on Archivist watch for a bit. When I’m done, we can practice. If you need two, I think the dollmaker has the Daniel Rawlings skin still around — that costume was about the same size as me; it should work as a base for whatever trick you need us for.”
Twin spots of indignant red colored her cheeks. “You have to do that job? You’re the ringmaster, can’t they get someone else?”
“I’m making sure Nikola’s costume is in good condition for the dance. That’s plenty important!”
She sighed, then gave him a brief, cold hug. “Fine, but we’re practicing after, okay?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
With a quick smile to show she wasn’t truly upset, she flipped back to the ground to land on her hands, lifted her legs back into the air so they curled over her shoulders, and walked away on her palms. Show-off.
Finding the Archivist’s room took dodging around wax figures, marionettes, and notably, a large rack of various unused skins. Both performers pushing the rack were out of costume, but despite the blank white plaster of their faces, he could tell they were irritated. He gave a quick, apologetic wave as he danced past in order to keep from knocking into anything else.
When he finally came into the proper room, he did so with a sigh. It was so quiet in here. Dull. The Archivist had been far too dizzy and unable to orient himself in the other rooms, and Nikola enjoyed talking to him too much to leave him in that state. Such was necessity.
Still, that didn’t mean the ringmaster enjoyed it. He was able to acclimate to the way of things here, couldn’t the Archivist?
He supposed it must be hard with eyes that wide open. They would just have to be patient.
Or, no. It wouldn’t matter for the Archivist. He wouldn’t be around long enough for it to matter. It wasn’t a quick process; just being able to walk through the back rooms without getting nauseous at all the moving color everything took— it took him—
It took a while. The time frame didn’t matter. He acclimated.
When the one on post saw him come into the room, they sighed. The juggler, if the things twirling through the air were any indication. They caught each spinning piece as it fell, then with the flick of the wrist, sent one flying. It landed square between the eyes of a figure too deformed to name, buried to the hilt in wax.
Not the juggler. The knife thrower. Right. He needed to get better at identifying roles on sight — everyone else seemed to have a knack for it he didn’t.
Maybe it would only come to him if he finally changed his costume. That might be what kept him from the ability to draw those lines and know the others past anything as untrue as their face. Maybe — though as comforting a notion as it was the ringmaster doubted it was true — all he needed was more time, no change required.
No blades came anywhere near the Archivist, of course. The knife thrower would be done for if they marked this skin. Still, though, they should know better.
“You know that if you make him jump too much, he’ll just rub his wrists raw. That’s still damage.”
“Can you blame me for being bored?” Their voice was unpleasant today, grating and nasal.
“No, but I can blame you for not getting a different set of pipes,” he answered. “We have options!”
They flipped and caught another knife, then sent it flying towards him. He knew better than to dodge or flinch. It sailed past a millimeter away from his temple, then sank into the doorframe behind him.
“We also have performers whose role in the show is for you to throw knives at them!” Still bright, still friendly, still with his own pleasant voice. Hopefully, even with skin traded and swapped, Nikola wouldn’t mind him keeping that.
As the knife thrower left with a huff, the ringmaster ducked behind one waxwork to where they kept some bottles of water. No telling when the last member of the troupe remembered to give the Archivist one.
He crossed over to the Archivist’s chair while the man eyed him suspiciously. They’d seen each other before this, but it was outside this singular room where things kept in the lines. He imagined that the Archivist remembered little of what laid beyond, or else, remembered with no way to understand.
When the ringmaster reached out to undo the gag, the Archivist held very still. Good. The others needed little reason to bother him and make all this wholly unpleasant, but it seemed some things the Archivist was learning at last. The ringmaster couldn’t fault him for taking this long to do so, not when he was sure he had taken plenty of time himself. Probably.
“Lovely to meet you, Archivist! I’m going to untie your hands, alright?” He folded the gag and set it aside, cheery the whole while. “No good if you lose circulation, and I’d rather not just— just hover over you holding a water bottle for you to drink,” he added with a slight laugh at the thought.
“Appreciated.” The Archivist’s voice was dry, but the ringmaster didn’t mind. Acclimating to new situations often made people standoffish.
As the ringmaster worked at the knots, he could feel eyes lingering on his face. It was such a common sensation he almost missed it, but the Archivist’s attention felt different than the crowds he drew in with such ease.
Rather than say more, the Archivist took the offered water bottle and drank near half of it in one gulp. The ringmaster would have to check in on that, then. Hydration was important in keeping good skin. If others weren’t giving the Archivist enough water, that was counterproductive. The ringmaster wasn’t sure there was any saving this skin, scruffy and scar-riddled as it was, but that was no reason for them to make the job harder on themselves.
There was a long stretch of quiet as the Archivist drained the remaining water in sips. The ringmaster hated quiet. It felt wrong. Unnatural, when music should fill all the air and keep things spinning along. Quiet made things empty. Too clear.
He hummed under his breath, that same calliope tune he first heard when he came to the show. It never failed to keep everything in pleasant upside-down inside-out motion.
Unsurprisingly, the Archivist ruined its melody with his incessant words.
“What’s your name?”
“That’s a bold question to ask around here, Archivist.” He didn’t intend to threaten, merely warn. Finding all the trapdoors on a stage took time and consequence. If he could give some small nod to one, he didn’t see the harm in that.
“…Okay. Alright, then.” A beat. The ringmaster knew better than to believe it meant an end to the inquiry. “Who are you?”
He fell into a deep bow, smiling the whole while. “I’m the ringmaster, of course.”
“Is that skin— Is it yours?” Old wood groaned as the Archivist shifted his weight. “Originally.”
“It is!” the ringmaster said as he swooped back upright. “Nikola decided I wore it well, so she let me keep it. Why do you ask?” Possibly a dangerous question, but he couldn’t deny his curiosity.
The Archivist gave him another once-over. “You just… you look familiar. Like someone I know.”
“Familiar?” he repeated. “Have you been to one of our shows before?”
“No, but I’ve read plenty about your shows.” The Archivist spoke the word with no shortage of distaste. Unsurprising if he’d never seen a performance in all its sickshock glory. If he did, he would understand.
No, he wouldn’t understand. That was the point. There was nothing that could be understood, and it was wonderful.
“I’m sorry you won’t get to see all the acts for yourself,” the ringmaster said with genuine remorse. “Got to keep to schedule, you understand.”
“Right. The show must go on, I’m sure.”
As always, the phrase sent electricity down his spine and a flash of colorfear in his eyes. He hid it with a pleased smile. “Exactly!”
No, not hid. It was pleasing down to the root. Nothing to hide.
The Archivist’s eyes went narrow. What did he see? “You really can’t tell me your name?”
“I already did!” A wink punctuated the turnaround. “Names don’t mean anything, it’s your role that matters. You ought to know that by now, Archivist.”
It went silent after that. The Archivist’s head was tilted back with eyes closed. Trying to sleep, maybe. The ringmaster remembered that he hadn’t been allowed to sleep when he joined the show. Much too much to see. He did miss it, just a little, but sleep was a small price to pay.
Quiet again. The ringmaster had nothing but his thoughts.
Familiar, hm? Like someone the Archivist knew. Strange.
That same curiosity pressed at the back of the ringmaster’s head like a headache. Pounding. Wrong.
He went back to humming the same unsettling, comforting tune. If nothing else, that song would never leave his side.
Eventually, the next shift change grew close enough that the ringmaster had to shake himself free of his drifting through the colorblur in his head. He returned to the Archivist with the discarded gag in hand.
First, to replace the restraints — higher up this time to keep from damaging one section of skin with the rough cords. The Archivist roused from his own blur as soon as rope met skin.
“I really am sorry about this,” the ringmaster said as he checked his knots. “Being contained isn’t much fun.”
The Archivist adopted that same searching look as when he asked about names. “You have experience?”
“Members of the troupe have to come from somewhere! Not all of us have been around since the Russia days.”
It was clear the Archivist intended to ask another question, but before he could say a word, the ringmaster lifted the gag.
“Sorry, but I need to put this back before the next one gets here.” He made a go at a sympathetic smile. “We’re not supposed to take it off at all, but having one of those on for so long makes your jaw sore as anything. Though,” he continued as he knotted it against the back of the Archivist’s head. “You probably don’t need me to tell you that.”
“Mmpf.”
The ringmaster rounded the Archivist’s chair once more to crouch in front of him. “Before I go, just… some advice? You should really think about going along with all this.”
“Mrmf.” Unintelligible as ever, but with a stubbornness in his eyes too strong to ignore.
"I know, I know it feels better to dig your heels in sometimes, but it won’t get you anywhere — just more unnecessary punishments.” He stood again. “Trust me, cooperating makes things much easier.”
There was the searching look again, but gagged the Archivist could do nothing but look.
“Well, that’s all, then. I’m sure it won’t be long before I’m on watch next, so I’ll see you soon!”
As he passed an acrobat on the way to take up post, even brightspin chaos just outside the door couldn’t shake that obstinate needle of curiosity.
Familiar, like someone the Archivist knew. Strange. Very strange.
The ringmaster often left their company’s backstage to invite people to shows. His skill at bringing in the crowds was what made him such a successful ringmaster — why not use the time he took doing that to search for this person as well? No harm in satisfying his curiosity. If the two of them really did look alike, they might be a wonderful addition to the show.
It was decided. The next time the ringmaster left, he would do so with thoughts of this mystery person that looked so like him.
It took no great deduction for the ringmaster to settle on where he would begin; the Archivist spent all his time as the Eye’s stronghold. All his time not at the flat the couriers said smelled of death, anyway. As unpleasant as he found the thought of being watched without ceasing, death would be worse. Curiosity wasn’t worth his life.
So, the temple of the Watcher. As fine a place as any for the show to begin.
Even out of his usual performer’s clothes, the ringmaster knew he was eye-catching, so being stopped a few times by passersby came as no surprise.
Ha, eye-catching. He’d have to tell the contortionist that one later.
Or, no. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t place why, but for some reason this felt like something to keep to himself — even from her, though she was the first one he truly talked to after joining. She was the closest thing he had to a confidant. Still, this felt like his alone.
Stranger and stranger.
Those that stopped him never did so for long, merely wishing to give him a compliment or some other nicety before that perfect unsettled look came over them and they made themselves scarce. He invited none to a show — this close to the Eye, there was too much risk of catching the wrong attention. His skill any other day at collecting the crowds meant that, with any luck, today’s failure would go unnoticed.
Circling the building a few times earned glimpses of a handful that held more of the Eye’s focus — assuming his sense for those much too clear was accurate, and he had no reason to doubt. Know thy enemy, et cetera.
He dismissed a few out of hand: a woman whose loose black curls did little to hide how she was built of knifepoint edges; another with dark skin, covered hair, and sharp eyes; and a third whose small stature took nothing from her wolfteeth.
It was the third who almost caught him. With the second woman at her side, she froze on the temple steps, every muscle wound so tight the ringmaster could see her ready to pounce from his place across the street.
He ducked into a small cafe with his heart in his throat. A glance risked through the window showed the two on the steps exchanging a few words, then the taller making her own scan of passersby. By the time he felt he could risk another, he only just caught both women as they crossed the temple’s threshold.
After a charming smile and a few of his own words to placate the shopkeeper, he returned to his post.
Only one person gave him pause — a man, tall like him, with dark hair and eyes. The similarities ended there. His face was rounder than the ringmaster’s, and the half-moon glasses he wore only made it seem even moreso. If this was the one the Archivist thought looked similar, maybe his eyes weren’t as sharp as the ringmaster thought.
Still, he couldn’t help but feel he was missing something, and he was nothing if not persistent.
As a few days and another show passed (tightropes as the central act, always a crowd-pleaser), the ringmaster extended his circumference around the Eye’s stronghold whenever he got the chance to look: if this person wasn’t there, maybe they were nearby. It was a flimsy excuse to put off going to that death-scented place, but knowing that didn’t make the ringmaster anymore eager to take his chances there. He wasn’t even sure why he kept looking. Something about the person with a face like his dug into his head and refused to let go — not so distracting that it interrupted his wide-smiled performances, but a distraction nonetheless.
Every alley he passed looked the same; nondescript and nameless as anything else. He only noticed an equally-nondescript door set halfway down one from its opening, and caught a glimpse of dull grey brick through its frame as a man came through.
With a quick step the ringmaster hid behind the corner of a wall at the other end of the alley. He hadn’t seen much of the man before hiding: a bit shorter than the ringmaster, a bit broader in the shoulders. The same curious itch of wrong pulsed in his head, moments from blurring to a truly miserable headache, but he needed to understand the certainty that upstaged it all.
When the man left the alley after a long, searching pause, the ringmaster followed.
As they walked, he noticed more similarities. They had a similar build of curving muscle, though the ringmaster was on the leaner side. His skin was a slightly lighter shade of brown than the man’s, but they had the same warm undertones. The man’s carried far more marks — scars matching the Archivist’s.
They weren’t perfect copies by any means. Despite that, the ringmaster had no doubts: this was who he needed to find.
How was he supposed to approach something like this? What was he even looking for? As they walked, the ringmaster whipping behind corners whenever the man looked over his shoulder, he wracked his thoughts and came up empty. Having to hide over and over at a moment’s notice did his focus no favors, and the man never stopped checking behind him. Paranoid as anything.
It was after one such close call that the ringmaster left his cover and saw the man was gone. Vanished. He could see no sign of that dark, tied back hair anywhere.
The ringmaster kept forward for a few more paces. Had the man turned a corner he didn’t see? Gone in a building? He saw no doors swinging shut, but it was possible.
This was bad. He was so close, to this man, to answers, to figuring out why his head hurt so much. He was close, and he lost it.
He was resigning himself to returning home empty-handed when a harsh grip closed around his shoulder and dragged him into the alley at his back.
Things moved in a prismatic migraine haze that kept the ringmaster from struggling until there was one hand fisted in his shirt and a forearm pressed along his collarbones, threatening to put its full weight on his throat.
The man’s face was dark. Thunderous. “Guess Jon’s stalking had one benefit — I know when I’m being followed.”
Blank, the ringmaster could only stare with eyes wide. The name itself meant nothing, but it made something else stir in his head.
When he got no reply, low-rolling fury hissed in the man’s teeth. “‘Course you picked this skin. Message fucking recieved.”
Pure nonsense. This was his skin. What other skin would he wear? Did this man expect him to change costumes just as much as the troupe?
At the ringmaster’s silence, the man shook him roughly by the shirt with the brick harsh and dragging against his back.
“So you thought it’d be a good idea to follow me in his— in this skin.” His voice was as harsh as the brick with something much deeper underneath; an echo of old pains, like a broken bone that was never set and healed crooked. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you right now and make sure no one else can wear him like a cheap g-ddamn shirt.”
“Because I know your name.” The ringmaster’s own words shocked him, but he had no doubts. He knew the man’s name, he did, and that was wrong and made his head pound but he knew his name.
The man’s face twisted, but before he could spit his reply, the ringmaster continued.
“I know your name, and I— I don’t know why.”