15th Task || Sebastian Michaelis [Video - Broadcast Mind]
“Why must I pair up with you?” William T. Spears asks.
You agree. The idea is inconceivable. But there is very little time to dispute the decision. The circus tent is full and the audience restless, awaiting the next act. “Was it not only Miss Wendy who was hurt?”
Dagger scratches the back of his head helplessly. The usual trapeze act is a pair of children. It’s true that you, having been asked to fill in for the injured girl, are not a good match for the slip of a boy, Peter. Someone of your approximate height and weight would be the only good candidate for a partner.
Unfortunately, the only one close is Spears. He adjusts his glasses - a last ditch attempt at dignity, no doubt, fruitless as it is in that ridiculous suit. You have not quite seen anything so hideous before, expect perhaps the variation he wore yesterday. The suit’s jacket is patterned with gaudy stars, and the tie with polka dots. You might openly laugh if it wouldn’t make the situation worse.
“I will not consent,” Spears growls.
You raise your chin. “I don’t fancy it either, but we cannot help it, can we?”
“For me to cooperate with such vermin.” He walks off muttering. “Truly.”
You sigh. You tug on your watch chain to retrieve it from your waistcoat pocket and snap it open. “7:30.” There isn’t much time. He’ll cooperate yet; he has to.
---
Perhaps you underestimated his resolve.
“What are you doing?” you demand.
The two of you hang in the air, upside down on the trapeze. The ground sways dizzily beneath you, and the audience is just a series of muted blurs. Spears swings to and fro, not once holding out his hands so that you can continue the act. He adjusts his glasses. How his neatly combed hair does not succumb to the effects of gravity is astounding.
“I refuse to touch a fiend like you.” He crosses his arms to indicate his determination.
You have left ire and arrived at full on aggravation for his man and his prejudices. “But that will not make for much of a show!” You could swing limply up here for hours without each other’s inertia to land you back on your respective platforms. Besides, you have somewhere to be.
That somewhere suddenly becomes more urgent. Even over the din of the audience, your hearing is excellent. Somewhere below you, another performer, a young lady with black curly hair and an impressive bosom, has broken a lace on her corset. As her costume is already border-lining on indecent, she must return to her own tent to change.
And you must certainly beat her there.
You turn back angrily to Spears, arms outstretched. “It will be fine, so please just hurry and hold out your hands!”
“Didn’t I say never at any cost?” He lashes out at you - he possesses a rather nasty set of garden shears, situated as they are on a long pole that can expand and contract at will. You just barely maneuver out of the way; the blades soar past the underside of your neck and nearly graze your chin. “Your hands will debauch me.”
You are both wearing gloves, so even in the event that your existence is as lethal as he believes, infection is unlikely. Still, Spears will not yield. It is clear what must happen to give the audience a proper - albeit short-lived - spectacle.
“I see. If you are so against touching me, then this-” You seize one end of the deadly shears, on the stem just above the blades, “-should do!”
You pull. In a lovely display of imbalance, Spears’s legs untangle from the trapeze bar, and he plummets toward the ground. The crowd goes wild. But as much as you would enjoy seeing him endure a violent landing, you keep hold of his weapon.
“Let go!” he implores, as if bloody ruin would be preferable to being at your mercy.
You smirk. “I cannot do that."
Spears adjusts his grip on the handle of his shears. The pole extends farther still, putting more distance between you and him. But now the time is right; you have swung as high as the trapeze will go, and your platform is within range. With a grunt of effort, you finally release Spears’s weapon and slide off from the bar under your knees. The two of you flip spectacularly through the air - and, thankfully, away from each other - and make a perfect landing on your respective platforms.
You rise from one knee just as the crowd erupts into raucous applause. You beam and wave and, finally, sneak a glance at William T. Spears. His back is to you. He adjusts his glasses and “hmphs.”
What an illogically unpleasant man.
You agree. The idea is inconceivable. But there is very little time to dispute the decision. The circus tent is full and the audience restless, awaiting the next act. “Was it not only Miss Wendy who was hurt?”
Dagger scratches the back of his head helplessly. The usual trapeze act is a pair of children. It’s true that you, having been asked to fill in for the injured girl, are not a good match for the slip of a boy, Peter. Someone of your approximate height and weight would be the only good candidate for a partner.
Unfortunately, the only one close is Spears. He adjusts his glasses - a last ditch attempt at dignity, no doubt, fruitless as it is in that ridiculous suit. You have not quite seen anything so hideous before, expect perhaps the variation he wore yesterday. The suit’s jacket is patterned with gaudy stars, and the tie with polka dots. You might openly laugh if it wouldn’t make the situation worse.
“I will not consent,” Spears growls.
You raise your chin. “I don’t fancy it either, but we cannot help it, can we?”
“For me to cooperate with such vermin.” He walks off muttering. “Truly.”
You sigh. You tug on your watch chain to retrieve it from your waistcoat pocket and snap it open. “7:30.” There isn’t much time. He’ll cooperate yet; he has to.
---
Perhaps you underestimated his resolve.
“What are you doing?” you demand.
The two of you hang in the air, upside down on the trapeze. The ground sways dizzily beneath you, and the audience is just a series of muted blurs. Spears swings to and fro, not once holding out his hands so that you can continue the act. He adjusts his glasses. How his neatly combed hair does not succumb to the effects of gravity is astounding.
“I refuse to touch a fiend like you.” He crosses his arms to indicate his determination.
You have left ire and arrived at full on aggravation for his man and his prejudices. “But that will not make for much of a show!” You could swing limply up here for hours without each other’s inertia to land you back on your respective platforms. Besides, you have somewhere to be.
That somewhere suddenly becomes more urgent. Even over the din of the audience, your hearing is excellent. Somewhere below you, another performer, a young lady with black curly hair and an impressive bosom, has broken a lace on her corset. As her costume is already border-lining on indecent, she must return to her own tent to change.
And you must certainly beat her there.
You turn back angrily to Spears, arms outstretched. “It will be fine, so please just hurry and hold out your hands!”
“Didn’t I say never at any cost?” He lashes out at you - he possesses a rather nasty set of garden shears, situated as they are on a long pole that can expand and contract at will. You just barely maneuver out of the way; the blades soar past the underside of your neck and nearly graze your chin. “Your hands will debauch me.”
You are both wearing gloves, so even in the event that your existence is as lethal as he believes, infection is unlikely. Still, Spears will not yield. It is clear what must happen to give the audience a proper - albeit short-lived - spectacle.
“I see. If you are so against touching me, then this-” You seize one end of the deadly shears, on the stem just above the blades, “-should do!”
You pull. In a lovely display of imbalance, Spears’s legs untangle from the trapeze bar, and he plummets toward the ground. The crowd goes wild. But as much as you would enjoy seeing him endure a violent landing, you keep hold of his weapon.
“Let go!” he implores, as if bloody ruin would be preferable to being at your mercy.
You smirk. “I cannot do that."
Spears adjusts his grip on the handle of his shears. The pole extends farther still, putting more distance between you and him. But now the time is right; you have swung as high as the trapeze will go, and your platform is within range. With a grunt of effort, you finally release Spears’s weapon and slide off from the bar under your knees. The two of you flip spectacularly through the air - and, thankfully, away from each other - and make a perfect landing on your respective platforms.
You rise from one knee just as the crowd erupts into raucous applause. You beam and wave and, finally, sneak a glance at William T. Spears. His back is to you. He adjusts his glasses and “hmphs.”
What an illogically unpleasant man.