Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

You are Mestre, a mediocre barista.

What makes your story so bizarre, so ludicrous?

You are not of honorable family—nor of title—

Yet through the gossamer shrouds of night’s gentle veil countless whispers

call for you to approach as if your own mind itself is inflating your purpose

in this world. A pair of eyes, more golden than the heaving throes of dusk’s denouement,

swells with such familiarity, traces your doubtful steps.

You convince yourself it is a mere play of your imagination,

for in the streets you can lay your trust. The shadows do not love you, or so you think.

Because they have always craved your touch.

On the first day since the disappearance of Carol

a performing group —visceral, unlike any you have seen—

is storming your town. Transforming a once peaceful road

into a typhoon of flyers and piercing raised voices. It is a travelling nuisance,

as your Boss believes it to be.

On the way to work, you come across a strange person

donned in checkered red, black, and gold clown attire,

purple-faced and battered— hunched on the abrasive concrete.

A man towers over him, fists bared cruelly,

arms raised – as if prepared to again strike the clown –

So what the Circus is a blight? You should not stand by; you cannot just witness

this vile act. Grabbing the attacker’s arm, you yell ‘Do you know

what you are doing? Don’t harm him! What has he ever done to you to justify this—

this abuse? Look at him, he’s bleeding waterfalls and barely conscious. Why, you should

be ashamed of yourself.’

                   The attacker scoffs and pushes you away. He mutters ‘His height–

his monstrosity, don’t you believe he is no creature of God?

This clown is a freak – death to all freaks. You know perfectly the women

who disappeared—ran off with her lover, or so they say—

everybody knows it’s the freaks’ faults! To hell with this Circus!’

You must strangle him as he attempts to land another kick at the clown.

‘Go! Return to your mother!’ You let forth your cries, completely aware of the gathering crowd.

‘Confess to her you have beaten up a poor man. Tell me—

will she take such awesome pride in that?’

And so the attacker scuttles away like

the pest he is, spitting vacuous threats. Gasps radiate from the gaggle

of passersby as you offer your hand to the clown,

whose mind is just now returning to light.

                                      At his full vertical prowess, he is a beauty – evident barely from a glance.

Your eyes cannot help but be drawn to that cheshire grin

and painted teardrop on his glistening white mask.

You introduce yourself as Mestre, the barista of local coffee shop – not the favorite

of your Boss, but adequate enough – and he tilts his head

near-sideways in acknowledgement, the smile spreading across his face.

He does not utter a single word before you.

In an attempt to be courteous, you proffer him a wrinkled band-aid from the depths

of your pocket for the slim gash running down his face. Watching curiously as he picks at it

with serrated talon-like fingers, you wonder just how it was created—

his uniform, how it appears so beastly, yet comforting in its

warmish tones and shapes. His yellow eyes through the mask—or face paint,

are mere slits. There’s a teasing glint to them. You cannot bear to avert your gaze

from those depths. What a Circus of Horrors it really is.

                                      ‘Has the band-aid eased you?’

you ask the clown. He nods in confirmation, the tiny bronze bells

that swing off his jester-hat trilling barely louder than a browned leaf

falling upon damp earth. You promise yourself that

if you were ever to see his attacker again, you wouldn’t be as forgiving.

As you two part ways, you raise your open hand in a bidding of farewell.

                   Your morning is all but regular.

A shifty man in blue-toned sartorial wear is perched by a table at such a position that darkness

has consumed a great moiety of his aquiline face. When you ask for his order

he bothers you incessantly and attempts to hand you a gaudy pink Circus Ticket.

You politely refuse and advise him to leave, so he does.

You resume taking orders, brewing coffee, running countless rounds of

small talk with customers. Something shifts in the corner of your eye,

so your head flies to the window. Nothing is there.

Truly the bizarre acts of a Circus do not interest you at the slightest—

You will likely never cross paths with the clown or the unsettling man again.

At the cloying cries of evening the café door jingles—

bringing with it a gust of chilly breeze. You are prepared now to close up

the shop, but the uncanny shiver running down your spine stops you dead

in your tracks—and you’re even the more shocked when the lights go off!

Eyes, from every corner, seem to bloom. Hungry, predatory—

you resist the urge to freeze and snatch a blade into your shaking

hands. It’s probably a breaker issue, but you cannot be

too careful. For if there is an intruder, it would be too much of a shame

to be caught off guard—this city is no longer safe. You walk up to the breaker

and revive the lights, bathing yourself again in comforting pale glow. Now

you are ready to leave for the night,

                                                                             but the door opens again—

welcoming inside a familiar silhouette.

How so? Your Boss declared adamantly to not accept anybody

affiliated with the Circus inside—to deny them service

if they enter with the intention to vandalize and force upon the immaculate walls and tables

their sickly, irritating advertorials. Doubtful, you watch as the Clown approaches—

in his slender hand is a rose the color of the gaping gash dripping fresh blood

on his forehead. The sluggish grime of your exhaustion is washed away at the sight

of his smile. ‘Is this for the band-aid?’ you ask as you take the flower.

Momentarily you are stunned as he leans in and whispers sweetly into your ear

‘Yes, My Lord, this offering

is from to my immense gratitude. Yet I am not permitted to speak

before others. You see, I am the Pierrot of the Circus—

my purpose is to maintain my silence. I will make exceptions when it’s just

the two of us. May you understand, please.’

The petals are soft in your fingers – almost damp. The paper rose is freshly painted.

                                                         It smells nearly…metallic—sour.

‘Pierrot. It’s late—deathly so. I was just about to close up the store. But…

I shall make an exception, postpone my egress, and tend to your wounds.’

You set yourself down beside the Clown and begin wiping at his forehead

with a clean rag, wondering if the object on his face really is a mask, or just

sturdy, deliberate face paint. He makes an expression, intended to amuse viewers.

You suspect nothing about his acts are amusing at the slightest. But,

you cannot assume, can you? Pierrot, beaming,

humming softly as you dab on disinfectants. ‘Why do you not wince? Doesn’t it sting—

the alcohol?’ Curiosity has a modicum of decency

to not get the better of you tonight. ‘Tolerating pain is part of my role—for I am

responsible, as a Circus member. Impulse. It’s something we all must control. There’s the

Jester, the Doctor, and—the…Harlequin. We all must hold up this shield.’

As he utters the final name, his expression stiffens into a visage of pure

disgust. Abhorrence. Pierrot seems docile, friendly, almost,

innocent despite the countless disappearances plaguing the city. He is almost too amicable.

‘Do not worry, My Lord. I will protect you from anybody who hurts you.’

Before he leaves, he hands you a gleaming Red Ticket—

for special admission into the Circus, apparently. You pocket it and wave him goodnight,

deciding that perhaps going to the Circus and seeing his act wouldn’t hurt after all.

Stifling the broiling fear in your belly, you return to your home. A waterless vase holds tightly

the rose as a single petal falls—kisses the ground.

                   Deep night brings with it blood-curdling nightmares—

visions of Pierrot so realistic, so lifelike, that you are convinced

that he was truly there, truly leaning right over you, obscuring

the pallid light of a bulbous moon—hissing horrible, unthinkable

lullabies, promises that he would possess you, your mind, your body—

As dawn’s blue smile paints the sky upon its indifferent canvas,

you awaken to a city devoid of birdsong. Your television buzzes;

you must have left it on before you fell asleep.

You must find your bag. There is no time to stretch your brains out

over an illusion crafted of your skeptical innermost thoughts.

As you move through the flyer-paved streets, something along your spine

prickles. The hairs on the back of your neck are raised—stiff in anticipation

so you turn back, fling your head to the alleyway.

From there a pair of eyes as golden as licking candlelight watch.

And as quickly as you spot them—they vanish into the ravenous shadow.

You feel the Red Ticket in your uniform pocket. Tonight you will go to the Circus

you’re afraid you no longer have the choice to refuse.

Chapter Text

Under heavy purple drapery of the Jester’s tent—

Jester and Ticket Taker speak. The controlling Jester narrows his glowing purple eyes into

slits through which not even the most daring light would travel, and spits

‘Bil. We have discussed this—you cannot let them run free so callously!’

but is interrupted by the Ticket Taker, who yells ‘Jester, you are weakening

your grasp over us, over them! You forbid every action yet

what do you gain when they pull away?’ A wave of darkness crosses Jester’s

face. Ticket Taker stiffens, overcome by horror, remembering too late

what the Jester is capable of when perturbed.

Jester does not lash out.

                                    ‘What do you know of this, Bil?

How devoted I am to making sure what happened to Columbina must never again plague

us? She truly was an Angel sent from the heavens, but her sacrifice

was…necessary, perhaps even if it was borne of Harlequin’s envy, but our times now

are not as desperate as they once were. Do you truly believe I can manage every tiny thing—

every one of the movements under these Tents? How long will it be until Pierrot

relinquishes his search for connection. Do you know how much I worry for him—how I fed him my

own flesh to save him from starvation, because he got attached to Columbina—and we paid the price?’

Bil places a gentle hand on Jester’s shoulder, sorrowful. ‘Jester, my old friend. I know—

I was there to witness. We grew frail, emaciated together. I remember your ribs

poking out through your skin—frigid, so helpless we all were with our fragile hearts

Pierrot may be callow, he may be rash, but assure you he will not let his guard

down. Yet I fear for him as I fear for your sanity slipping away.’

                        ‘For my sanity you fear! Hah!

Bil, you’re a dreamer. If there were two Jesters, you would be the second—

only for your quixotic ideals. But, my friend, I’m afraid there can only be one.’

The Ticket Taker’s hurt glance stops Jester’s piercing words in their tracks,

and he instead straightens his posture, adjusts Ticket Taker’s crooked hat and

abandons him, motionless, in the deserted audience bleachers. Choking through

his words, as if at the brink of tears, Jester mumbles from the stage,

‘I must prepare the Fools for tonight’s act now. I apologize

for the rather insensitive remarks, know that I didn’t behave my tongue, and I shall

take full accountability. Bil, my friend, I recommend we speak later, so now

it is time to say goodbye. I wouldn’t wish you abandon your duty anyway.’

            Ticket Taker nods,

and lowers his head, holding a gloved hand over the featureless side of his face—

halfway in shadow. Halfway scarred by the lash of a whip—oh how heartless,

how utterly selfish humans are—to overlook morality in the quest

for entertainment. Making the world a living hell

for beasts like him, abusing pure beauties, and twisting further the souls of

the broken. Humans. What do they know of hunger, of agony, of torture?

Why they even torment their own kind!

                                    “Freak” may be a self-appointed title—

born from cycles of ridicule. Ironic, he may believe, but the name

stuck along like a sigil forever seared onto their foreheads.

A reminder that they will always be different, always be shunned by the world.

            He steps out of the tent, observing the Fools

rambling about. They are just empty shells, former humans. And people watch,

their eyes washing over with awe, confusion, indifference. He has no idea

what, or who is behind those subdued, ever-grinning masks.

Clad in pink, they meander through the paths, sweeping and observing

the mechanized attractions. Six of them have congregated in a strange circle—

twirling endlessly around a lonely patch of air. A green figure dashes up to them,

arms bared, glowing green tendrils spilling from under his cloak poised to strike

the Fools square in their heads.

                                    ‘Harlequin, what are you thinking!”

Ticket Taker rushes to strangle the wild man. Harlequin shoves him off and sneers ‘What in

hell are you doing here? I thought you were discussing Circus matters with Jester.’

Ignoring Ticket Taker’s blazoned discontent, the cunning Harlequin smirks—

yet the irritation tearing through the flexible lineaments on his mask is

intentionally undoubtable. With a mawkish sigh, he recoils his sprawling tendrils

and suddenly extends his arm and pushes down one of the Fools,

who collapses onto the ground and remains immobile.

‘You pest—I will report you to Jester if you take this any further,’ Ticket Taker growls.

            ‘And he will what, constrain me to my tent and confiscate my puppets?

You come weeping to him, and I’ll collapse in laughter. These are mere Fools. What can one gone to us?’

Harlequin grabs the hem of his black cloak and bends into a sardonic

curtsey, eyeing Ticket Taker’s clenched fists and whitened knuckles. ‘Oh, going to

cry? Thinking yourself incompetent—as if you’re waltzing on the pretty path to disappoint the only one

who actually cares for you? Frightened of being isolated—’

            The Fools keep circling, unaware of their dead comrade sprawling on

the dirt—their checkered crakows tottering over the body like a dozen hammers

crushing the Fool’s fragile bones. Ticket Taker groans in exhaustion, and calls for one Fool

to dispose of the body. Perhaps a motionless, tiny form like that reminded him

far too much of Columbina. How in her sacrifice—each of them found

something different. Her story recounted through the eyes of the beholders,

            as Jester sees love and envy—

                        and Harlequin sees desperation—

                                    while Ticket Taker sees Columbina’s quiet acceptance

in a hall of mirrors—

            But Pierrot’s act is the only left silent, drained of all sound except

for the thump of throwing knives against a restrained Fool’s skull and the

thunderous crack of her mask as it falls onto the stage. If he were to open himself like a

book, spill his countless words upon the audiences the emotion would surely be so great

—so sublime. Nobody would make it out to feel

the gentle touch of daylight’s silk-bound hands.

Chapter Text

As dawn’s blue smile paints the sky upon its indifferent canvas,

Carol has been missing for two days. Your Boss is huddled in the corner

surrounded by a throng of police, disquiet sneaking its way into his stalwart frame—

as if he were a great sequoia, channeling through years digging his roots deep in the soil, only

to be swayed by a violent earthquake. Waiting now, for a chance again

at a stable life. You carry on with your work, as you were told.

            Customers are scarce—

but the loyal Pierrot, clad in red, returns to be by your side. He orders

a peculiar combination of a milkshake: strawberry, coffee, and chocolate Perhaps

his proclivity towards sweets is beginning to show, alongside the

growing number of cuts and cracks snaking along his mask. ‘Tonight, my act is

three hours before midnight—promise me you will come to watch. And do not

forget to bring your special Red Ticket, and show it to the Ticket Taker,

My Lord.’ You promise to him that you will—

                        A Circus member in green and black, deeming himself the cunning Harlequin

Is here for an iced drink, but cannot seem to stop muttering about

Pierrot’s idiocrasy. You ignore him,

hoping it’s just a component of his daily act. Before he struts out

of the store, he brings himself horribly close to you—

enough that you can smell the tinge leather of his uniform

and pins a glimmering green enamel heart on your collar. He lets forth his words,

 ‘This tiny gift is for you, sir. So make sure that Pierrot catches sight of it. He must know—

that you’re mine, not his! You’re mine, oh you’re mine.’ Harlequin offers you a

Green Ticket, which you politely deny. Something in you suspects the

two are all but companions, and you are at the center of their feud.

            When a regal violet haze dirties the sky, you begin stroll to the Circus—

and are accompanied by Pierrot and Harlequin. You can almost touch with your outstretched

fingers the palpable tension—hate—crackling between the beastly men...

They glare at each other with broiling malice. In a rush of energy,

you indicate your egress from the conversation, leaving them

pulling each other’s collars and cursing on the sidewalk. When you consider

yourself a safe distance from the altercation, you mull your mind over the hectic

past twenty-four hours. From chasing off Pierrot’s attacker, to worrying over

Carol’s absence and meeting Harlequin. You suddenly find yourself plagued

with necessity—the mediocre barista Mestre stumbling into a hurricane. It begs

the question of if you will make it out of this chaos alive—

                                    but the Circus awaits.

You were convinced by Pierrot’s mellifluous voice and kind actions, enticed by his

conflict with Harlequin, and steered by the biting curiosity about Carol’s whereabouts.

So seemingly the Circus is all along your kismet—perhaps even your

purpose in this meaningless world. You notice the variegated tents looming as you approach

the Circus’s vast grounds, each calling with its own twisted song. The giant red tent,

which belongs to Pierrot, may just speak like a mad ocean tide

grabbing at your legs—sweeping you into sickly warm, inky depths from which

you cannot escape. Beside it stands one tent, moderately sized, adorned in rich

purple and gold. There too is a Cyan Tent, a Blue Tent, and a Green Tent.

            The Cyan Tent is the Doctor’s, Pierrot had explained. Here

you will be poked and prodded and examined as the Doctor diagnoses you

with something. In the Blue Tent, Ticket Taker entertains with a hall of mirrors—

and the Purple Tent contains a stage for the Jester’s vivid, dramatic storytelling. Harlequin

plays with puppets to make a show in the Green Tent. Pierrot left his own act

a surprise, for your amazement, he said. You can visit these

while waiting for Pierrot’s show to begin.

                                                There are two tents you do not know the purpose of—

the Pink and Black Tents. From the distance you watch a clump of uneasy people,

dressed heavily, obfuscating their faces with masks and goggles lined up at the

Black Tent, but you do not have permission to enter, so you will perhaps never

know what horrible things occur there. From the shifty blue-clad man you refused

a Pink Ticket, so the Pink Tent is outside of your boundary.

            Sometimes you must remind yourself,

that you should not submit to fun, that you must remain on a knife’s edge

because the town is no longer safe—and the Circus’s arrival is somehow

connected to the perfect string of disappearances that news channels rave about.

To trust Pierrot completely is to deny, to turn a blinded eye to the sinister

rattle of bells that follow you almost everywhere and be compliantly wry as

you watch a Fool succumb to fatigue on the street as Harlequin grins.

            You reach the entry to the Circus, and are greeted by a mask of a bisected

smile. Dressed in blue silks and gold ruffles, the apprehensive Ticket Taker slides

you a greeting. ‘Welcome, bold visitor. Have you purchased a ticket yet? I feel

like we’ve met before—haven’t we? You’re just so familiar.’ He watches

with widened, raven-like eyes as you pull a Red Ticket from your pants

pocket. His cheshire grin grows wide as he examines its print. ‘Dear visitor,

you seem to possess a Special Ticket. Hold on to it, I advise you, but you

will be able to access most—not all—of the attractions. I’ll be wandering around to

make sure you do not overstep your privileges, of course.’ he says.

                        Before you part into the Circus’s noisy grounds,

you hear Ticket Taker mumble, ‘I’ve never seen a Ticket of this sort in

anybody’s hands before.’ You follow the gravel and dirt paved paths until

you stand before the Cyan Tent. There’s opportunity for time to be burned,

before Pierrot’s act opens. A female Fool hands you a weathered slip—

‘One at a time, sign the contract before entry,’ she says. You take the contract into your

cold hands, read it thrice, and finally speak it out loud.

            ‘Obey the Doctor and you’ll be fine.’

Before you know it, the pen has moved to the rhythm of your signature, and

the Fool nods and gestures for you to enter. ‘Thank you for your understanding,

Mestre.’ Inside the Tent is a cloud of shadows and cyan eyes from hundreds

of mutilated dolls hanging from the ceiling. The giant, hunched form of the Doctor

watches you from the examination area, his tri-color cloak dragging on

the blood-stained floors. He wears a plague doctor’s mask—contorting his face

into an emotionless bird-like visage. ‘Come, sit here. Do not panic—for I’m

only going to gift you a diagnosis.’ He leads you into a seat and binds your

wrists down so you cannot move. ‘Why, visitor, you appear so worried—

afraid. Your pupils are dilated; you’re sweating; your limbs are

restless. Tell me, are you frightened of the act, or of what I can do to you?

                                                Your eyes warily track his movements as he lifts

a talon-like hand to read the pulse on your neck. The touch is clammy,

and you can smell the spices and antiseptic on his clothes sharp like

the incisive instruments on his surgical table. They sit there, by puddles of browned

blood, ready to slice into your flesh and peel your skin. You do not move, nor respond—

fearing of his interpretations. When you entered the Circus, you could

never fathom that you will be strapped to a medical chair in the hands of

another crazy freak—he tilts his head and brings a hand to his chin. ‘You’re

questioning me right now. You don’t think this is just an act; you’re actually

horrified. I’m coming to like you already—you intrigue me so.

Maybe your screams will pique my curiosity as well, but we’ll see.’

                        He hums as he lifts a syringe filled with pink fluid—

‘I can cure you, but you would have to be injected with this sedative.

Accept, it, and everything will cease. You have the choice

to refuse, I will say. Though I do recommend this, it’s not necessary.’ You shake

your head, blatant refusal, and he nods and puts away the

syringe. ‘So be it,’ he says, ‘do you feel calm now?’ You say

yes, and he frees you from the chair. You rub your raw wrists, and thank him.

‘How you seem to lick up every one of my lies, quite interesting, my dear. But

you won’t fall for this ruse as easily as the others—fantastic specimen!’

Shaken, you walk to the exit, grateful for the evening light hitting your face.

‘Make regular visits to your doctor, There’s too much adrenaline in

your blood. I like that. Now enjoy your walk,

Mestre.’ You hear his voice in your ear and turn to find him leaning over you.

You nod, hiding your trembling hands in your pockets, and dash off.

There is a bandage on your neck, although you do not remember being scratched.

                                    The thousand luminous eyes of the hanging Dolls are burnt

in your mind now. You cannot help but breathe heavily, unable to calm

your frenetic heartbeat—like the Dolls’ padded, disembodied fingers are

tapping at your chest. Perhaps the Doctor is still observing you from behind. You

pray not. A chilly breeze runs by you, dragging through the colorful fabric of the

forest of Tents into a tender waltz—

            You head to the Blue Tent, where Ticket Taker awaits.

The paint-like black liquid dripping from his eye seems to have slightly stained

his collar. He allows you inside, speaking of deception,

illusion, and belief—this time there’s no prerequisites, only the

haunting echo of a many-faced hall and Ticket Taker’s cautions.

‘Do not trust what your eyes see.’ People mill about, gasping at the

distortion and absurdities of the show. You walk,

awestruck and dizzy, until everybody vanishes.

‘What is this? Where did everybody go?’ you yell into the emptiness.

‘Curious visitor,’ Ticket Taker responds, showing himself in a reflection. ‘Now there,

do not take to heart everything you see. Were the people even there? Everything could

be an illusion—oh what a beast doubt is! It can cloud the truth, and unveil the lies.’

While the mirrors in the crowded room are immaculate—rubbed clean until no grime

obscures their message, this room is hung with cobwebs and dust. The largest, central

mirror presents itself with gravity—so you decide to reserve it for the end

of the attraction.

                        ‘Do not believe everything you see!’ Ticket Taker’s

voice rings through your mind. You stand before the first mirror to your left, and feel

warmth, the pressure of physical contact on your back. A bell jingles.

                                    Inside the mirror you see yourself and Pierrot.

He is behind you, hugging his arms around your neck. He speaks, and you

know the meaning though the sound never reaches your ears.

‘Don’t ever abandon me, My Lord. Please don’t leave me here—”

Blood—he sinks his teeth into your shoulder, yet no pain tears through

The nerves in your arm. A golden-eyed silhouette appears in the reflection, brimming with

rage. The mirror’s illusion is interrupted by a throwing knife smashing the fragile glass.

You turn and reluctantly advance to the next mirror.

There Ticket Taker with a dripping smile warns you to never trust

what meets your eyes. You feel contact on your back, and are told

not to turn. When you do, Ticket Taker’s grin falters and he scolds you,

claims that obedience is the key to survival in the Circus. You feel something

grab your head and Ticket Taker says to the thing behind you

‘Step back. We are only talking.’ You ask what it is, and he says

it to be an illusion, admiring your curiosity. ‘Go now. The mirror at the end of the hall

is my favorite—rather intense.’

            In the next mirror, Doctor looks you over, and says ‘Your fear response

fascinates me. Let me measure it—and if your heart gives out, then you’ll be just

like the other dolls.’ His cloak looks like a coat of feathers—

his usually cyan eyes now glowing redder than blood. Your skin prickles and

you step back until you cannot see his tall silhouette anymore.

The furthest mirror

to your left shows Jester, the man with sly purple eyes,

with his hands clasped behind his back. ‘Luck is a fickle thing. We’ll be watching—

waiting for you to falter…and when you fall,

I’ll have my fun, and make sure you’ll never be seen again. Perhaps mysteriously, you will

go missing. I’m sure nobody would miss your presence.’ His smile

grows until it has eaten his mask—you run as fast as your weak legs can take

you until you are across the room, facing another mirror.

            It is shattered, yet your eyes intercept a ghost

of a scene. Fire, screaming, cursing the Circus. There is blood,

ashes, rotting flesh. You cannot bear to witness this any further—

the stench of death and burn is suddenly overwhelming your senses.

            The next mirror, like the one with Pierrot,

shows Harlequin. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?

You really think you’ll survive me?’ Harlequin

lilts as he wraps his hands around your neck

and digs his bite into your skull. You shiver. The image

fades and you are left alone with the large mirror.   

            Come closer-

A beautiful girl stands in the reflection—with two braids falling down her spine.

Her eyes are pink, round and wide. ‘Listen, hear the truth—

get it off my shoulders, please.’ A wailing urge to escape floods your

muscles, but you continue, plunged into her story.

                                                Men stand, observe her every move, bark at her beauty. A

creature with golden eyes blocks her from their mockery, but the men whip and stab

him until he is reduced to a slumping figure in a cage—barely holding on to

his life. ‘He is the first. We will wither away in this pit, but I will feed him

until that time comes,’ comes a voice. Then, four

more join him in cages, bled and bruised and hungry. ‘Another moonless

night,’ one utters. ‘It may be our last.’ Only the girl remains, in the center. Not caged—

only shackled, sitting before the others like a red rose in a sea of

brambles. The men want to kill the others, spare her. But

She is the purest—by far. She knows only the harm

she witnesses imposed upon the rest. ‘If they come for me again,

will you protect me?’ she cries one night. And in throes of desperation,

the slender green-eyed one tears through his cage, grabs her,

says ‘You really were the weakest among us. We shall feast now—

do you not see? Eat!’ he screams as he rips her

tendons into pieces and laughs and cackles until his throat

is raw. The golden-eyed one screams and pleads, while the others

watch, awestruck, horrified, until they too partake in the killing—

                        And the image returns to black, momentarily.

‘Thank you. It has been far too long—’ She disappears,

leaving a puddle of smeared blood where she once stood. Her soft voice rings in your

mind as your entire body burns. Is this really it?

And the exit, a cut of daylight

across the tent, appears. Before you are aware of the

autonomy of your shoes against the ground, you are careening

down the path, wanting no more but to flee from the horrors—

As you run you collide with a passing Fool,

her mask slips off, revealing a familiar face. She is Carol—

your missing coworker. With a lifeless expression,

there is no smile beneath that mask. Her eyes are glazed,

as if she is not even conscious. You freeze. What is going on?

Chapter Text

            Before their acts open, Ticket Taker and Jester sit beside

each other in the Black Tent. The silence between them burning

as they tend to the needs and wounds of beasts like them—

shunned, displaced. Freaks in the discriminating eye of the public. They conceal

their faces, their eyes, their souls, but what paths they take to blend into

vast human crowds, they are singled out by harsh words—

and pointed fingers. Ticket Taker punches their tickets, provides them with

clean clothing and food while Jester applies the Doctor’s various remedies

onto the callouses and bruises checkered along their fur-covered arms.

                        After the Tent is closed for the evening,

and the crowd disperses, Jester rereads Dostoevsky’s Idiot, chuckling

to himself. Ticket Taker traces a pen along the edge of a ruler—crafting a

spreadsheet solely for his own enjoyment as he peculiarly often does. It

is perhaps their only break for the day, as they must return to the hectic build

of their tasks at the brink of the hour. A steaming cup of strong coffee sits on the

table, from which Jester occasionally steals a sip. Sometimes abandoning his

grasp on physical space, he leans softly against Ticket Taker’s shoulder—

letting the ends of his streaming violet hair brush upon

the wood of the bench beside the Ticket Taker’s leg.

            Unbothered, Ticket Taker sighs, checks his wristwatch,

and returns his attention to his work. Soon he shoots up from his seat

and begins organizing various corners of the Tent. Jester stirs from the lull of his book—

watching Ticket Taker’s deliberate movements through half-closed eyes.

                                    ‘Bil, my old friend—

do you recall our hometown—the beautiful burgeoning tree blossoms, the

adequately-spiced food, the passion working behind every myth told by the

locals? Why from them I got my love for storytelling!’ Jester says to

the busy man. Ticket Taker pauses, and approaches Jester until

he stands before him, leaving a forlorn, unorganized cabinet agape in his wake.

Even as he sits, Jester’s height is impressive compared to Ticket Taker’s.

            ‘Well, perhaps we could see the purity, the pretty sights—

name the world for its kindness if only the world was kind!’ Ticket Taker

says, bringing himself to meet Jester’s gaze.

‘I wonder, Bil, if the evil, the enormity directed toward abnormality

that plagues us—that we perpetuate ourselves—ever had to do with our minds,

or the minds of…others, the humans. Even in realms

seemingly idyllic, cruelty can grow, myopia infects us!

Look at all these beasts, oppressed, put down. Are we

their only hope now? Will anybody ever step in

to help them as well, or is the image they have woven of us, such

the root of their discrimination, permanently laced in their

perception? I am curious: Where does it come from? Is

it just the nature of the human mind to stymie the lives of the different

—but what separates us from them truly? We all are monsters in one way

or another!’ Jester cries out.

                        Ticket Taker coaxes Jester’s hand into his,

and examines the delicate gold diamond patterning on his glove. ‘I know

how frustrating this is, how much it takes for you to

guide the Circus. How much it hurts—the tantalizing abandon you must endure

when nobody bothers to obey. Yet you—you are the master of puppeteering

the crowd’s every breath! You have those humans in a chokehold— You

know we should keep a stable composure before the public.  And you,

Jester, remember, remember that we cannot show our

weakness, our anomaly even for a moment—for this plight is not ending.

You and I both know that, and it has driven you out of the boundary of clarity—

and you break down before me now, seeking my advice.’ As he speaks,

Jester embraces him suddenly. Uncaring for his ruffled clothing,

Ticket Taker melts into the comforting warmth of the hug. ‘We—we will

make those abusers pay for what they did to us,’ Jester whispers into his chest,

feeling the rhythm of Ticket Taker’s stable beating heart—the cunning Jester

rarely allows himself to divulge his true worries to his family, even in his stories,

yet with Ticket Taker, his words and feelings spill from his psyche

like the dark, aggressive edge of a flooded riverbank—

where the mud and water is freezing against his ankles

and dirtying his clothes and his mind. How he would wade

through the marshland, a single cracked bucket in hand, to clear away

the excess water until his thoughts again are spotless and no marks of his

emotions remain—the effort is the price of his control.

‘I do apologize

for being so rash, earlier,’ Ticket Taker admits under

his breath. Jester nods—understanding, forgiving his outburst—

and releases Ticket Taker’ body so he can descend back onto the bench. For a

good while, each remains seated, tacit, drawn to his individual hobby

and to the other’s docile companionship, until sunset’s

soft breath bathes the tent in a golden mirage and the evening birds

sing their dreary, flirtatious melodies by the trees.

                                    And when the sweet hour is over, and the two

return to their jobs, their hearts and minds stay conflicted yet tender. The

blending mirage of peace and relief—it has stepped in to be their savior

tonight, yet in all its ephemerality, what meaning would they find? In their lives

starved of permanence, defined by intermittent changes—frequent deracination—

there not even is the time to spare for gratitude. The Freak Circus

of Horrors, in the end, is a family. No matter how selfish, how chaotic—

no matter the hundred or so sacrifices made for the sake of

survival. Under their masks, they are different from humans.

            They are freaks—and what good has that done to them now?

Chapter Text

Pierrot, his pupils shrunk and invisible against his black sclera,

shivers with rage—bearing himself over Ticket Taker’s undying grin. That man in blue—

is shifting Carol’s mask back into place, pretending that kind face is no longer significant

that she is a Fool, and nothing but a Fool. Her honorable heart is now hidden

behind layer upon layer of checkered pink and black—thick silken fabric, dead

eyes, dead mind. You cannot hold back a gasp. Pure fear, greater than

what befell you in the tents stiffens your arms

and shoots knives straight through your spine.

            ‘What has he seen, Pierrot, what have you told him?’ Ticket Taker

growls into Pierrot’s ear. You have an urge to run, to scream for help and summon

the authorities and end all of this at the snap of a finger—but you freeze in icy

resolve and look into Pierrot’s eyes. What other things has he held from

you? You have long suspected that your relationship is built upon lies—

but the truth itself is striking.

                        ‘Pierrot,’ you breathe, ‘promise me this isn’t real—do not succumb

to this cruelty, please. The Fools, they’re the missing people, aren’t they? People you’ve taken,

torn from their lives…’ The dripping hurt in Pierrot’s expression stabs your

heart—and his everlasting smile has been effaced into that pure white of his

mask. So delicately that your ears barely register, Pierrot speaks. ‘This is the

Circus of Horrors, of course he is afraid…’

            ‘Do. Not Speak.’ Ticket Taker breaks through the silence.

Pierrot steps back, his shoulders raised in hostility. You try to flee,

but you are too frightened to take your eye off the altercation—

as if the fabric of the world around them would collapse and tear

and would simply cease to exist. You duck behind the folds of the Black

Tent and cower, rocking yourself forward and back as if the movement

would calm your racing heart and tangling veins and clear the darkness

eating away at your vision.

            You remain there for what feels like an eternity, but

it is probably only half an hour. You can hear Ticket Taker and Pierrot

move away—and finally you feel remotely close to safe.

                        Carol is not returning—you know it. She is lost,

As good as dead. What will you tell your Boss? How will you ever

lay your trust and hope in Pierrot? He had always been so thoughtful…

and those innocent golden eyes hide so much—

                                    And somebody’s cold hand slams across your mouth—

and your shriek cannot escape, your head grows light, but the claws keep

digging into your skin, nearly drawing out drops of crimson

blood but you keep breathing, trying to understand who your attacker is—

‘If you make any noise, I will kill you, understand?’ You know that voice,

the snakelike green eyes of its owner—the speckling of hearts across

his uniform failing to make up for his heartlessness.

            Harlequin releases your mouth, grabs you

by the hair, and drags you inside the Black Tent. You hold in a pained whimper

as you feel a bite against your neck and your helpless body

is shoved upon a pile of boxes. His voice is steady, barely a hiss

against the commotion of the Circus. ‘Mestre,

sir, you know Pierrot is hurting you. His ego, he’s doing all of this for himself and

his twisted story of love, do you not know how he was compliant in taking her?

Join me instead…I can offer so much her than that wimp.’

                        He turns and looks you in your eyes. ‘Crying now?

Red doesn’t’ suit you, you know. An intoxicating green would be much more

beautiful.’ You try to twist away and wipe off the tears plummeting now—but he snatches

your wrist and pins you to the ground with one arm. ‘If you move, you’ll

be joining your little girlfriend over there—or even better, the Doctor will

turn you into a Doll. Happy now?’ And all the sudden—a knife is buried in his

shoulder and he collapses onto the ground beside you. A towering, thin silhouette

with fear-stricken golden eyes is behind him, drawing the knife out. You sob,

‘Please. Do not hurt him. I beg of you! Don’t hurt me!’ addressing them both as

Harlequin lunges towards him—but Pierrot, as quickly as he appeared,

vanishes into thin air, leaving Harlequin writhing in pain on the ground—wailing

vilifying curses in what you think is Portuguese. You stumble upright, and

fall out of the tent before he can again restrain you.

            On the street you push past the milling bodies of people—they gawk at the blood

on your shirt and the injuries on your face and neck—but you keep fighting

your exhausted energy, until the familiar

streetlights standing beside your apartment building come into the periphery

of your vision. You run inside and as quickly as your limbs can carry you, reach your

apartment, scramble to lock the door, and curl up on the floor

and weep until your eyes are dry and your face aches.

                                    A gust of nighttime wind—

it dawns upon you that you left the balcony door open. Pierrot used to

frequently enter through there, somehow, always climbing up the fire escape

instead of using the door. You race to shut it, and thankfully, you

are still alone. Before you can reacclimate to the darkness, your front door opens.

            And you find Pierrot, uncertain, almost shy,

with tearful eyes that have witnessed so, so much, standing in the doorway,

almost bumping his head against the wooden frame. He says, ‘My Lord, I’m so sorry—’

and you stop him with a gesture of your hand. Pierrot sees your fear and moves

away, ‘No! Don’t go…I might start to like pulling you back—just, I’m not here

to do anything, or…’ You approach him, warily, and ask, ‘Why was Carol there? What

have you done to her?’ Guilt swamps his composure and he replies, ‘I can answer

everything…but that. My Lord, I cannot bear to leave you distressed,

so…I will try to get her back to you—just not now. I saw

how much he looked at her; it’s not safe to act now.’ You nod,

allowing him to put his hand to the bite on your neck and

examine the mark it made—you find it so difficult

to hate him.

                                    ‘Harlequin…that—

he marked you. I was so stupid—to allow him to take

you and hurt you like that. I promise I’ll never let him near you—he…

he’s a hungry monster, unrestrained…’

            ‘I don’t know what you people want from me.’ you say, as

Pierrot gently moves his touch from the crook of your neck to your cheek,

‘You, My Lord. You remind me of somebody whom I loved…and I cannot

bear to lose you like I lost her. And he took her from me—he, that

blasphemous being…but now I have you, and if he—'

            “Pierrot.’ The sound of his name from your mouth,

it silences him. He lowers his hand and twirls the pearly locks

of his hair through one of his claws, his wide eyes ringed and overflowing

with anticipation…and love so luscious and thick like delightful poison—

‘All I need right now is some space,’ you say. His smile falls and

he seems to shrink into himself as he says ‘Well, if that is what you wish

right now—I will leave to spare you from my burden.’

                                    ‘No—

you can absolutely find respite here with me—I would just prefer not

to be bothered so I can think about…everything that’s

happened.’ You take his wrist and lead him to your room. You clear

the bundle of blankets and pillows so he can reside beside you

on the mattress and help with your

injuries. Almost, there is no need for a lamp, for the pallid moonlight

illuminates the room, and both yours and Pierrot’s eyes have adjusted

to the creeping shadows of night’s solemn veil.

Chapter Text

The cunning Jester glares at Harlequin, the raging fire

in his narrowed purple eyes striking a pang of suspense

into Harlequin’s tiny soul. He knows he will be punished

for bringing assault upon Mestre, but he twiddles his thumbs

regardless and raises both hands in an ironic gesture of peace.

Harlequin shrugs and asks, ‘Why do you stretch your brain taut

over one of my little stumbles?’

                        Jester places firm hands onto Harlequin’s shoulders—

the force of his grip nearly tearing his cape, and Harlequin winces from

the reawakened pain of the knife wound. ‘I can no longer tolerate your foibles,

Harlequin. You know who you wronged—you know we are never to harm

our visitors for our own selfish purposes. We’ve spoken before about this,’

says Jester quietly. He is lowering his voice, preventing himself

from lashing out upon the callow puppeteer, but on the brink

of yelling, nonetheless. Harlequin sighs, rolling his eyes, ‘Fine. I shall be more…

presentable in the future.’

                                    ‘Now, I must go oversee other issues, understand?

go do your job. You must fulfill your role, and

nothing but your role.’ Jester leaves Harlequin shivering at the entrance

of the Green Tent as he strides deeper into the late-night cold.

Harlequin stomps his boot against the ground and cries out—

suddenly red blood dampens his shoulder. The stitches he did himself,

after shamefully denying the Doctor’s help, have been torn. Silly how

he cannot even make his own puppets, nor his stitches—

                                                So he runs, makes himself hidden,

and hastily strips himself of his cloak and his jacket. He claws at the serpentine scales

patchworking the muscles on his back and sides—letting more blood spurt from the deep

indent on his shoulder. Curse Pierrot and his knives! He scoops the green threads

used for his puppets into his hand, and pokes an end through the eye of a sewing needle.

After pulling out the old stitch, Harlequin begins winding the thread through his

wound, each repetition sending another wave of tears down his

face. Why should Pierrot, right now, be blessed with Mestre? He should

be the one sobbing and tending to his pains as Harlequin claims Mestre

for himself—of the greed!

                        ‘Harlequin. I can smell your sour blood from my Tent.’

Doctor’s deep, Eastern European-tinged voice lifts Harlequin from

his trance. Too drained of energy to tell him to leave, Harlequin replies,

‘Yes, Doctor. I…I am bleeding. I presume you can come inside.’

‘I am obliged to treat you.’ Being the tallest of the Circus members,

the Doctor must hunch himself to enter the backstage area.

            ‘I know…I guess I messed up, Doctor.’

The Doctor nods and takes into view Harlequin’s loose stitches. ‘Harlequin…

you and Pierrot have too many conflicts, they stress your minds and bodies—

I am aware that due to what occurred in the past…and Columbina…you two will

never see eye to eye, but you two must learn to live with each other.’

Harlequin groans, smiling wider. ‘Doc, treat me, come on. It’s

your job, for heaven’s sake.’ The Doctor nods and picks the delicate needle

between his fingers—the pull of the thread making Harlequin

flinch. ‘Tragic…You never had a chance to grow up,’ Doctor murmurs.

Agitated,

Harlequin laughs, ‘Oh, grow up? Who was it that crumpled the precious

years of our youth and murdered whatever chances we had at getting normal lives

solely because he was blind and in love—and he still cannot face the

gravity of his deeds. Hell, an utmost idiot looks flattering beside him!’

‘The fault is not completely in Pierrot’s hands—’ Doctor interjects serenely

as he disinfects his wound and wraps it with gauze. ‘Before you go to bed tonight,

replace the bandages. We wouldn’t want for you

to get infected.’ Harlequin nods and buries his face in his hands—

wondering what he has done to deserve this. Under his cloak is a splattering

of scales—under his hat are two twisted horns. He can control powerful tendrils,

bite straight through bone—yet what benefit has that given him?

He is still weaker—smaller than Pierrot. Still nobody’s favorite,

still the pathetic little reptile filth left to wither

in this desolate, skyless terrarium. He is trapped in a world

where the sun is uncustomary—it scalds his eyes, reeks of

smoke and ashes. He can still hear the screams from that night,

see the tips of those rioting pitchforks—the hateful humans. But he will not let that

vulnerability show again. He is the poison, and he shall infect

with his carefree attitude and pretend that nothing matters

even when it does—

                        The caring Doctor finishes the stitch with precise handiwork,

and allows Harlequin to stand and stretch his sore limbs. ‘I would prescribe you

a sedative,’ says Doctor before he leaves, ‘but you are far too exhausted. I would

not leave that discomfort upon you.’ Harlequin slowly waves him goodbye

and slumps onto a bench, listless. He crosses his legs and stares at the

dripping venom-like green drapery of his tent—glowing with string lights

hung on its exterior. They glimmer against the green night like bereaved fireflies

floating by the river—

            And he knows when the lights die that it is time to rest—

so he leaves the confines of his Tent, and watches outside the smoggy stars

turn lazily through the sky. Jester calls him to bed multiple times, but

relinquishes his efforts and leaves Harlequin truly alone for the first time in months.

            Meanwhile lovesick Pierrot, sitting cross-legged in his bed,

is polishing his knives so adamantly that his flushed reflection

is lucid in the sleek bodies of the blades. They must all be ready for his show—

sparkling proudly when Mestre is amazed at his performance—despite being

lodged in a Doll’s skull. And tomorrow he will commence his morbid,

silent act, though today Mestre ran away before it could start. This will

not happen again. He will be more strategic when planning the next move—

            Doctor is fast asleep, valuing his respite and mindfulness.

Jester and Ticket Taker are lying at each other’s sides,

unable to sever their companionship. They are too close to let go

of each other tonight—and they exchange their thoughts in hushed voices. About

the Angel Columbina’s fate, the other monsters, the warring beasts

 Pierrot and Harlequin. Peace is hardly kept within the Circus these days.

Ticket Taker looks to Jester’s violet eyes, and his two

visibly protruding ivory white horns, and mouths words of comfort

to the shaken man as he traces with his outstretched finger the lines

of the painted diamond on his mask. Jester complies—melts himself

into the mellow touch.

Outside, Harlequin stands, brushes the dirt off his trousers.

He looks down at his hands—flexes his fingers, bids goodbye

to the stars. And he retreats to his tent.

In your apartment, you wonder

if you will ever come to love the Freak Circus of Horrors—

if the golden eyed shadow’s great adoration will withstand the faults

of the future, and the shackling mysteries of the past.

 How you met Pierrot, so battered and hurt, now you have seen the Circus,

its beauty, its chaos.

            Harlequin—

                        Carol.

Tomorrow you will return to the café, and keep your mouth shut

before your apprehensive Boss. Pierrot had, after all,

promised you that he would return her—but how can you trust him?

And Pierrot has long left, but you for some reason cannot sleep—

your room still smells of earthy flowers and petrichor.

            You turn to your side, look

at the undying blood-red paper rose sitting on your table. Take the light stem

into your hands and let your fingers run along the divots

in the petals. It is striking in the weak light. You hold it

to your heart and think of Pierrot’s words.

‘You remind me of somebody whom I loved…’ he had uttered

so honestly. He is artless. He is pure. Yet those crazed dawn-gold eyes

hide so much you are yet to see. He speaks with them through

his everlasting silence—

            You are Mestre, the Lover

caught between two worlds, and unable

to remain still in either.                                              

Chapter Text

Columbina’s Goodbye

I shall lend you my flesh,

and allow you to feast. I shall lend you

my tender kiss for the last time. Now trail my filthy viscera along the ground

let your final memory of me be grotesque…disturbing. Promise

you will never again think of me as beautiful or angelic—

and you will mutilate my face, tear my eyes from their sockets and my stitched

wings from my back. Recognize me as nobody—efface my image from your mind.

Do not grieve for my death—do not vomit, nor weep. Keep eating until you’ve

had your fill, and go out, watch the moon and stars dance to the tide, allow the wind to

braid your hair—not for my sake, but for yours!

            There is so much here…left for you to discover.

                        So move on now, my friend, carry with you

your hopes rather than your plights—better this distorted place

so no other beasts suffer like we did. I know in my heart that

we can create peace without the cruelty—and in a perfect world

rest by rose bushes hand in hand. Listen

to me—

Thank you,

thank you for your overwhelming love

for your protection—for those stunning flowers.

Do not hurt yourself for me anymore. I will be gone,

and you will only have yourself…and the others to protect—

            Farewell, my golden-eyed dear…I pray we

meet again in another life.

Fin.

Song Headcanons:

These are songs that I listened to while working on the fanfiction—

Pierrot reminds me of Kwik Trip by Lightris and Sero (a very cheerful-sounding song hiding sad lyrics) and Toes by Glass Animals (because of his identity as a monster). The romantic part of his personality can probably be represented by I Wanna Be Yours by Arctic Monkeys and Kansas by Gorillaz.

Maybe Let Me In by 1800-PAIN would suit Harlequin’s invasive side. Every Planet We Reach is Dead by Gorillaz perhaps? Mama’s Gun by Glass Animals might be related because of Columbina. Dracula by Tame Impala gets his vibe though.

Black Mambo by Glass Animals suits Jester and Bil honestly (holy hell the lyric “Pump your veins with gushing gold” might be one of my favorites). It’s sort of because of the sinister sexy vibe and some of the lyrics. I recommend you give it a listen, dear reader! Also Lust by Marino (considering that according to the Fandom Wiki, Jester was literally called Lust, but I cannot confirm the truth of that statement.)

There’s Doctor representation, of course guys. I haven’t forgotten about him. Be Careful What You Wish For by Jack Harris is a good representation of his dynamics and obsession with the fear of his patients.

Random/Misc headcanons (might be ooc but idc I’m feeling silly/obstinate):

Jester always brews his tea at the recommended temperature for the leaves, but if it is extremely hot, he does not care if he burns his tongue on it and drinks it normally (same for coffee). Ticket Taker has been trying unsuccessfully to get him out of this habit, but Jester shrugs him off and claims that’s how tea is meant to work (masochism or perfectionism—both?).

Pierrot enjoys collecting stones and shells and on off-days he goes to local beaches and forests to gather them. They’re memories of each place the Circus has visited. He’s slowly saving up pretty ones to give to MC. His favorite find is sea glass. He adores the frostiness and the rich colors.

Jester sometimes cuddles with Ticket Taker on cold nights. And warm nights. Really most nights now. Ticket Taker prefers that his bed is immaculate and that his blankets undisturbed, but when Jester brings a whole pile of pillows, he allows a bit of the mess.

Harlequin is not just freaky with the Fools sometimes, but he also bullies them and sometimes plays with their lives. Ticket Taker has caught him in the act multiple times and is slowly giving up on giving him any correctional talks.

Ticket Taker has OCD, but he has never questioned it. I feel like he’d think the compulsions are innate in everybody but the more he sees of the others (aka the gremlins of perpetual chaos) he starts doubting that idea. Harlequin has ADHD. He does not know what ADHD is, and he cannot bother to even care.

Doctor’s headphones have disconnected a few times while he’s conducting experiments (blessing ears with heavy metal). Harlequin cannot and will not stop teasing him about it. Doctor also sometimes gets a bit lonely and plays music for his houseplants. While patrolling, Ticket Taker has caught a listen or two—and he tries not to be concerned.

Pierrot has gotten very idealistic while watching saucy romance sitcoms on the Circus’s sole DVD player…and he has taken some inspiration from that.

When he was little, Harlequin was a few inches taller than Pierrot, and he loved to joke about his “enhanced vertical prowess” until Pierrot entered his growth spurt and permanently decided to have Harlequin be a dwarf in comparison.

Apart from being adept at language learning, Jester is skilled at reading music and learning new instruments. That does not mean he’s a virtuoso from the get-go. In his free time, he occasionally practices the violin with a mute, and asks Ticket Taker for recommendations as to which pieces to learn. Jester also has perfect relative pitch (not tantamount to perfect pitch) and has commented on Pierrot’s out of tune singing.

Jester presents as androgynous and may or may not wear nightgowns or robes with butterfly wing motifs to bed. I also headcanon he loves butterflies.

Jester cannot for his life stand E-books but he can tolerate audiobooks if the voiceover is good.

Doctor has a whole row of Venus Flytraps that he diligently takes care of. Harlequin sometimes collects flies by the handful (don’t ask where he gets them) and gifts them to Doctor.

Ticket Taker has an entire row of identical suits. Sometimes visitors get sick from the attractions and vomit all over him (poor guy), or the rain and mud catch him off-guard, and his suit gets filthy. Apart from Pierrot (who gets blood all over himself every 0.2 business days), he has one of the most dirt-attracting jobs, which means that he must be prepared for any situation.

Harlequin, like the cold-blooded creature he’s probably based on, gets cold very easily, but he tries to pretend he’s alright. In the end he has frostbite and Doctor goes out of his way to treat him. Sometimes he goes out into the snow and throws snowballs at Fools until his fingers turn blue—then he goes inside and gets a treat from Doctor. A day well spent, according to him.

Alright, that’s the end of today’s round of headcanons. If you’re interested in another potential chapter of this fic—ask me.