2019-09-07 - Freaks Like Us

The air in the park is hot and sticky this evening, though neither men can remember exactly when it was the sun set. The moon sits heavy in the sky, large and in its full phase. A harvest moon, they call it, with the orangish yellow hue but isn't it a little too early in the year for that? It casts a weird tint on the surrounds, like the world has been painted in sepia tones and all bright colors have been leeched of their glory.

Perhaps that's what makes the circus tent erected in the center of the park so unnerving. It really should be bold red and white striped, but instead the colors look a little sickly. Large banners have been strung up, marking the path to the entrance and promoting all sorts of wonders and oddities in hand painted detail. The canvas hangs limp on the breezeless night; triangular flags drooping on their knotted ropes instead of flapping gayly to draw the crowd in.

And yet they come.

People are filtering in, drawn in by the vaudeville style music being projected out of crackling loud speakers. It sounds as if it's being played from a phonograph with a warped record, the peaks and valleys of the etched disk making the notes sound warbled and off-pitch; an occasional skip in the song when the needle hops off the crest of a wave, only to be picked up again with a slight scratch.

The song is like a beacon, pulling in men in suits with fine hats and women in Sunday dresses and heels tugging on the hesitant hands of children to the exceedingly tall gentlemen hawking tickets for a dime. Alexander and Byron don't feel the unnatural pull of the tent, but perhaps they have some change in their pockets.

Walking has always helped. It's not the primary reason Alexander doesn't have a car, but it's in the top five; when he's feeling like his control is slipping, a long walk helps work out the emotion and ground him again in what he hopes is reality. Most of the time, it works. Sometimes, he finds himself looking up at the harvest moon, sweat a fine sheen on his skin, and wondering how long he was walking for. His eyes go first to the hospital. Then he hears the music, and his gaze turns in that direction. A circus.

A circus without commercials or flyers or excited gossip for days in advance? In this town? His expression sets into instant suspicion. And curiosity. The two often go hand and hand for Alexander. He moves closer taking note of the other people heading for the tent, and the tent itself. He pulls out his wallet. He has some change. He may be one of the last of a dying breed: people who primarily do their business in cash, without actually being criminals. He takes out a dime, and another couple of bills, putting them in his other pocket and making his way, watchful and wary, towards the ticket seller. This will end poorly.

But he goes, anyway, because it's interesting.

After leaving Lilith's Pawn Shop for the evening, Byron was heading back to Addington Memorial to make sure that Erin was comfortable and safe before he decided to finally head home. This is what brings him to the park on this warm summer night, having parked his car in the lot to walk through the peaceful and serene area in the hopes of gathering his own thoughts over recent events and clear his head somewhat. He's still dressed in that gray suit from this morning, in fact, he made certain to straighten out his tie using the reflection of his car mirror before stepping out in the humidity. So despite the long day, he still looks put together enough as he did that morning.

Strangely, when he had passed here last, he didn't notice that the circus was in town. There's a curiosity that comes over him more than wariness at first, watching all the people filter into the large tent and listening to that old-timey music which really gives the scene a nostalgic charm. He should know better by now that things are strange and perhaps in the back of mind he senses the oddity. That doesn't stop him from moving in close to check it out, his wary gaze o the patrons and carnival workers alike. For whatever reason or perhaps because he's being drawn by the sudden realization that something strange was afoot, he pays the tall man selling tickets, the same as Alexander does. In fact, that's when he notices the other just as he's handed his entrance ticket. "This... doesn't bode well." Because there's been many an event where both he and Clayton were present that didn't go well at all.

"Step right up! Step right up! See the marvels collected by the Great Stephen Thorne on his travels across the world. They mystify. They tantalize. Ladies and Gentle people - you won't believe your EYES!"

Somewhere inside the tent, there is a lady's scream. High pitched and horrified.

The crowd outside the tent sort of balks, but the hype man doesn't hesitate. "We've got another fainter, folks! So shocked and amazed she'll be out for days. Step right up and see if you can handle the sights." The crowd seems to part, the line sort of dissolving around Alexander and Byron as they draw close and the tall ticket seller - is he on stilts? - points a black and white cane at the pair. "What about you gentlemen? Do you have the stomach? Then pay the ferryman your coin and enjoy. The. Ride." He unfurls his hand, long slender fingers that are ghostly pale as he waits for the men's dimes to be deposited.

Alexander considers Thorne as he gets out the dime for his ticket, looking the man up and down. "No," he agrees, quietly. There's a faint smile that comes to him, mostly in the eyes that pick up the lights of the circus and stand out of the shadows. "Probably not. Seems to not be your week, Thorne. Stay close, if you're real."

And then the barker starts talking, and there's a sharp, indrawn breath from the older man. His expression twists, and he gives Byron another long look. "I'd say you don't have to. But the only way out of these things is through, I find. I'm sorry." Not that he's looking forward to seeing what 'marvels' the Dream Stephen Thorne might have in store for them. He hands over his dime with an air of grim resignation.

Whatever curiosity that may have come over Thorne, his eyes scanning the carnival posters to give him a hint of what's to be found inside of the tent, just that one announcement alone more than catches his attention. It doesn't help that he'd already retrieved a dime from within his pocket, his hand outstretched to hand it over to the ticket seller before he's hit by the realization of what exactly was going on. Byron is normally a rather composed person, even when growing up and living in the dark shadow of his father. To the outside world at least. There's this sense of panic that comes over him, something that sparks within and making him take a few steps back, practically bumping into Alexander in the process when the other man goes to get his ticket.

The look which Clayton gets is an mixture of incredible tension and annoyance, the latter most likely due to the man's advice that they need to move forward. Oh no, Byron doesn't like this one bit, something which may or may not tip off to Alexnader that this is, indeed, the real Byron Throne. I can't. He feels like a child again, keeping his thoughts in his mind rather than speaking them out loud. But by then, his coin is already exchanged for a ticket whether he likes it or not, perhaps something that he'd done unconsciously. He remains deathly quiet, no longer looking towards Alexander but towards what he can only assume will be an unpleasant experience.

The Bearded Lady! The Siamese Twins of the Orient! View an Alien Fetus! Sideshow Freaks and Oddities! - These are all things the banners advertise.

Inside the tent is a pathway lined with velvet ropes that seems to wind around the interior, meant to keep the patrons moving and in a certain direction. Those that already entered the tent disappear around a bend ahead, leaving Alexander and Byron to be greeted just inside the entrance by a woman with an impressive stature of a whole three and a half feet. She has a sparkling top hat propped on her tiny head, and wears a tuxedo jacket with tails that reach her diminutive ankles. When she speaks, her voice is high pitched, with a bit of an accent that's hard to place beyond a touch of French.

"Messieurs, are you ready to be astounded! Please be aware, these sights are not for the faint of heart. So if you must, turn back now. But if you are brave..." A golden rope unfurls from the shadows overhead, her tiny hand curling around the knot just above its tasseled end. "May I present, Aquata! The woman of the seas. Half woman, half fish. Her beauty is rumored to have caused the deaths of many a sailor before she was finally caught up in Monsieur Thorne's mighty net!"

She gives a tug of the rope and velvet curtains part, revealing a woman draped on a faux boulder, currently brushing out her long brown wavy hair with an opal inlaid comb. There is no telling what the other patrons see when they look at her, but Byron and Alexander see past the illusion being cast on the poor woman. It's not that her legs are naturally fused together in a beautiful tail, but that the skin along her inner thighs and calves have been flayed away and the meat of her legs have been sewn together with sloppy stitches of thick cabling.

Alexander is quick to step back when Byron does, his hands coming up about half way, as if warding off the potential of touching the younger man. The look, at least, is familiar. Alexander's hands curl into fists when Byron looks away, and he curses low under his breath. "Look." A pause. "Just. Stay behind me." With that, he's going to try and step around and in front of the man and be the first in the tent, his body tense and watchful.

The little woman is grimaced at. "Bravery has nothing to do with any of this," he tells her, flat and angry. An anger that only grows as they're shown the woman with the flayed legs. His breath catches, and perhaps his own calf twitches at the memory of an injury gained not so long ago. "Fuck." A shake of his head. "She's not real. This isn't real." It's more to himself than to anyone else; a mantra to keep himself calm.

The idea of a circus freak show didn't scare Byron as grotesque as some of them may be with their exploitation. And here he is, practically holding in his breath at the start of their journey deeper into this madness, which he'll soon release prematurely on meeting with the diminutive woman with the sparkling top hat. Then they are given the choice to turn back and something in his mind wants to do just that, especially on hearing that name mentioned again: Thorne. His own name.

There's a brief moment when he turns back, looking over his shoulder to see if there truly was a way out from whence they came, but he feels himself moving forward. Perhaps, Alexander was right and they needed to get through this. All of it. He doesn't stick close to the other man, keeping a good enough distance away. Whether or not Alexander needed his space, Byron felt he needed his own now. A space to breathe in the case of...

The mermaid revealed to them, he can clearly see the grotesque nature of her legs. Was this how carnivals in the past did it? Torturing their performers for profit in this way. It was difficult to look at it, but he keeps to his own tense expression, his mind jumping ahead. What else did they have in store? This was just the beginning.

"You may look! But don't touch!" The little Ringmaster laughs, a squeaky screechy sound as she gives a tug on the rope and the heavy curtains swing shut obscuring the view of the beautiful woman who is calmly bleeding all over her fake rock.

They never move along the straw scattered path, and yet there is the sense that they're drawing further away from the entrance. The next scene they are greeted with when the curtain parts is an obvious set of gaffs. Though they are of high quality, there is nothing supernaturally unnerving about them. A set of shrunken heads made out of leather, a pig fetus in a jar touted as an 'alien', and the baculum of a walrus are in polished glass cases.

The men are given a few moments to feast their eyes on the wonders while the female ringmaster prattles on about where Thorne acquired them before the curtain swings shut again.

"Now for a man that can crush your skull between his palms! A man who needs no hammer other than his fist to break through concrete! Witness the feats of the Strongest Man on Earth!" Another golden rope - or is it the same one? - is tugged and the curtain parts, revealing a man of undoubted muscle tone. He seems to easily swing the barbell above his head, the bar capped with a pair of giant black balls with '1 Ton' painted in white on their curved surface. There is no telling if they weigh that much, but the ground shakes when he drops it back to the floor and flexes for the pair of men. Only Byron realizes that the gentleman was using his mind, not his brawn, to lift the weights.

Alexander flinches away from the sound of the Ringmaster's laughter, frowning towards her and pacing a bit as the curtain to the gaffs are opened. Almost against his will, he studies the exhibits, snorting derisively at the fakes. There's no quip about them; maybe he's learned not to, or maybe he's just not the kind of guy who comes up with a witty remark when on the ragged edge of tension. He freezes when the curtains close, and tenses for the next exhibit. Before the curtain rises, he quickly glances to Byron. "You okay?" Just a brief question and assessment. His gaze flicks back to the strong man, and his eyes narrow. He flinches again when the ground shakes.

The further they continue on this journey, the more Byron hesitates to go on. As they depart the flayed young woman, he keeps his sights focused ahead of him even if he's filled with a sense of dread once the next curtain is pulled open. It seems that Alexander has the same idea, not immediately proceeding. If anything, while Thorne isn't in full panic mode, his skin looks pale. Then the other man tasks him with a question, inquiring of his well-being. "I'm fine." He says, hiding his own fears and replacing it with annoyance. "How many more rooms do we have to go through?"

The array of morbid and grotesque items would probably have drawn his attention at any other moment, even when he was a curious child who would be excited by the creepiness of it all, but the suited entrepreneur gives the display a fleeting glance. Was he afraid to see something in particular within that collection ? It didn't matter, they ushered forward once more.

This next announcement has him take pause, his eyes blinking at something that ringmistress says. Here, he takes the time to take in a deep breath, something about all of this was beginning to make him nervous. Make him remember something that, in truth, he'd never forgotten. The Strong Man is up on stage, his eyes, like with the others, watch as he displays his impressive strength. Though it wasn't pure physical strength that he was observing, but something telekinetic, perhaps. As he continues on, his eyes drift back to the man, gaze lifting to regard the Strong Man's features before they move on through the next curtain.

The curtain closes and the next swings open, almost disorienting in its speed as if the men have been spun on a giant Lazy Susan and this 'ride' is getting faster and faster. This tableau is woman sprawled in an old fashioned barber's chair, but instead of getting her hair cut, there is the buzz of a tattoo needle as a man sits hunched over the exposed curl of her arm to add an inked anchor to her already impressive collection of tattoos. She seems so serene and calm as that needle works in an out of her skin, permanently marking her in the artistic homage to Sailor Jerry. Or at least that's what Alexander sees.

Byron is treated to the image of the woman not getting the application of a needle in the tattoo gun sense. Instead, the man is sewing a scrap of tattooed flesh to her own. In fact, her entire body is a massive patchwork of other people's skin, tattoos stolen off the living or the dead and added to her own menagerie with a series of stitches.

The curtain closes just as the tattooed lady gives Byron an almost knowing smile.

Making sure she has both the men's attention by ringing a hand bell, the minuscule Ringleader pipes up again. "And now, the piece de resistance! Monsieur Thorne's crowing glory though he didn't have to travel far to find this gem. No, may I present to you Grand Master Stephen Thorne's crowning jewel: his very own son, known around the world for his contortionist acts: Byron the Bendy!"

Each exhibit adds to the tension boiling up inside Alexander, and he's a restless, prowling soul in the confines of their special viewing box. As the curtain rises, his eyes snap fire, glaring at what HE sees as a largely harmless exhibit. "Stop this, already," he snaps. "Stop this stupid fucking teasing. If you're gonna try to hurt us, then just do it already," he snarls, to the Ringleader. His skin is crawling like the moment before a storm lets loose, all potential and heavy pressure.

And then, of course, she moves on to the 'piece de resistance', and his face goes from angered to stricken in a moment. "I didn't mean it. Fuck." He backs up hastily. He's getting insider Byron's bubble, whether the other man likes it or not, as if trying to shield him from whatever the curtain is about to reveal.

The buzz coming from the next room does little to set Byron's mind at ease, his steps move slowly forward, feeling like he was mere cattle being led to the slaughter. They were getting closer and closer. He could taste it.

His face is like a stony mask as he looks on with the rest to view the woman in the barber's chair. A mask that was slowly cracking in places. The sound of the awed audience is in no way reflected on his own features, perhaps it's because, unlike the others, he can the sickening show of patchwork skin on full display upon this woman's body. His breath comes in steady, he's been trying to keep himself calmed this whole time. Even when Alexander raises his own ire to this malicious taunting, there's this glassiness found in Byron's gaze now, his mind venturing forward again and he's no longer paying attention to the here and now. That is, until they are ushered forward again. That's when he thinks he catches an odd smile from the tattooed lady, but that could just be his mind playing tricks on him.

There's some irritation brought on by the ringing of that bell, but by now Byron's nerves have been completely frayed by this experience. There's only so much that he can endure all with the blank expression that he tries to retain. The next exhibit is announced and he can taste the bile rising in his throat as he was ready to retch it out all. If he notices Alexander getting into his personal bubble, that's not what Thorne is reacting to now. "No.." He starts out quiet, "No.. I'm not going in there." In fact, it looks as if he's about to turn back, make the long trek through the rest of the exhibit if it meant not being confronted by whatever lies behind that curtain.

And yet, poor Byron has no choice. Again, they seem to move to the next section without so much as lifting a foot. Velvet panels swing open, and Byron and Alexander are greeted by a clever set design, meticulously modeled after Byron's childhood home. The setting is the family's kitchen, a man - Stephen himself - dressed in a fine suit and trench coat as if he's about to depart for work, is sitting at the table and passively ignoring his wife and child as he seems to read the newspaper. The mother, dear Mary, is wearing her apron and her Grizzly Den Diner name tag while she makes breakfast for the family.

In the center of the 'room' highlighted by a spotlight is a small boy, no older than seven, standing next to the open flap of a suitcase. "I...I don't want to!" Comes his little voice, ignorant of the fact that his older self is on the other side of that velvet rope, contemplating fleeing.

"Do as your father says." Mary intones lightly, purposefully distracting herself by frying up eggs. She doesn't want to watch the show herself. She knows what happens every time, and yet she can't blame her husband. Not truly. So she turns a blind eye and slots some bread into the toaster.

With a sniffle and a trembling lip, the little dark eyed boy steps into the open suitcase just as the first audible CRACK is heard of child Byron's bones breaking. This is how he contorts and fits into tiny places he ought not. CRACK. His body jerks involuntarily with a howl of pain that brings him to his knobby knees, causing nothing but an annoyed ruffle of his newspaper from Stephen and a little sigh from Mary.

"We can leave," Alexander says, voice thick. "We can fucking tear our way out of..."

Too late. The tent shifts around them, and there's the scene. He has to turn around and look at it. He can't stop himself. It's not a tableau he's ever personally been able to witness, even allowing for the sick twist on the circus act the child is forced to perform. When Alexander visited - well, lurked, it was usually well after the sun had set. But there's also no mistaking the things that...well, he always knew were going on. He didn't have to see Stephen Thorne ever lift a hand to his son to know it was going on. For the moment - just as he often was in that brief time when he lurked outside the house and failed to find a way to help young Byron - Alexander is frozen in horror and helplessness.

Even once he's turned around and heading into what should have been the Tattoed-Lady's room, Byron is confronted by this sight of his own family's kitchen. The Thorne House on Oak. Once he realizes this, he immediately turns as if heading back, yet again, would get him out of this nightmare. But there didn't seem like there was any back. Just the kitchen that he grew up in.

If anything, it's the sight of his father that freezes him in place. Even as an adult, the long-lasting effects of the terror that he felt towards Stephen Thorne continued to linger. To him, coming face to face with his father was more horrifying than anything that he's ever faced yet. Nothing from his dreams. Nothing else that tried to kill him.

His breath comes out quickly, bordering on the verge of hyperventilation. He couldn't stay here and yet he couldn't tear his eyes away from what he... what they were witnessing. It was all too familiar, the sound of those broken and crushed bones, so much so that with each crack, perhaps out of his own sense of panic, it's as if he can feel them break within himself. Finally, his attention is pulled away from the child, focusing solely on his father even as the scene plays on. "Stop. I didn't mean to--" These are words that he'd pleaded with his father time and time again. "I'll be good."

The corner of Stephen's newspaper is calmly folded down to look out at the unwilling audience, the man's lips twisting cruelly into a smile that grows and widens until there's an impossible amount of teeth that stretch from ear to ear with a series of grotesque wrinkles piling up like putty at the corners of his grin. "Stay out of my head, boy!"

His head snaps to look back at the seven year old version of the apartment building owner and with a sudden cant of his head there is another resounding CRACK and the boy's arm bends at an unnatural angle as he folds further down into the suitcase. Mary starts humming, as if she can cover up the sound of the splintering bones behind her and she kicks up a heel beneath the flap of the suitcase to close it over the sinking form of her son into its interior.

It's the words that come out of Byron's mouth that shake Alexander out of his paralysis. "Don't--" He's not an inspiring figure. He's not GOOD at calming people, or supporting them, or getting them through emotional crises unless he's playing around in their heads, so the words are hard for him to find. And when he does find some, they come out rough and angry. "Don't apologize. You did nothing wrong, Byron. You're not...you're not a kid any more. And that fucker's dead. This is just a shitty illusion trying to get inside your head!" As he speaks, he grows more agitated, the words tumbling out all over themselves until they're so fast it's hard to make them out.

It's easy to make out what he does to demonstrate it, though - which is to spin around and raise his hands. The sharp scent of ozone rises, like a storm breeze, and his hands crackle as he gathers power, intending to launch it directly at the Detective's face.

Even with Alexander yelling at him, Byron remains frozen in place. The desire to hide away grows ever stronger. He was a disappointment to his father. Never good enough. Never quiet enough because Stephen Thorne could... read his mind, taking in all of his racing thoughts. But could he really? There was a time in his life where a young Byron believed that whole-heartedly. The twist to his father's lips, the unnatural smile that stretches the man's face almost grotesquely, is this how Byron had always seen his father as? This twisted monster?

When confronted by his father, Byron always took the defensive, if not physically blocking the attacks, he at least would brace himself for what's to come. He does this now all the while remembering something that he'd attempted to do while he was still a child. Intentionally reach out into his father's mind. He doesn't even notice Alexander taking up his own stance beside him.

"I said STAY OUT OF MY HEAD!" Stephen bellows as he flicks his newspaper away with a movement of his wrist, getting to his feet and stretching to his full height which seems much taller than his 6'1" stature that he stood in life. His hand goes to his forehead, a sudden buzzing noise in his ears that makes him slightly sway. "Dammit boy!" Clearly Stephen knows where it's coming from. Who is causing it. But at least his focus on adult Byron has taken his attention away from the younger version. His hand extends, and a fireball forms quickly and bursts from his fingers towards Alexander's chest.

The ability to throw electricity beyond the range of his own fingertips is still one that Alexander struggles to control. His power spills out of his hands, a spidery blue-white bolt that tears a furrow through the kitchen table, but fails to actually touch the monstrous father figure. And then there's a fireball in return, and Alexander doesn't dodge it - there goes another shirt, as the fireball splashes against his chest, burning through fabric and into skin. Alexander staggers back a couple of steps, batting at the flames quickly to put them out. "Byron! Come on, man! You're sharp enough to see through this asshole!" He takes up a more defensive posture near the younger man, and when he notices the Ringleader trying to make a move, he takes his focus off Stephen to try and deal with the oncoming threat. After all, it'd be rude to let someone interrupt a father-son get together.

Something which Alexander had shouted previously seems to play back within his mind. Maybe Byron had heard at the time, but ignored it, but Clayton said that these were illusions and that... that he wasn't a kid anymore. And that his father was dead. Nevermind that what his father continues to scream out is very reminiscence of what he'd warn Byron about all those years ago.

There is anger inside of him, something which he had held for his father for so long. Even after the man had died; that mixed with this ingrained fear that was difficult to shake after all this time. His right hand clenches into a fist, one that sparks and crackles with an electric intensity. A brief glance is thrown Alexander's way, seeing just what his own father had done to other man. You bet, that makes him nervous as well. But this was all a dream. This wasn't his father. This thing couldn't do to him what his father did.

At the noise of the commotion, the tiny be-hatted ringleader reappears, her small hands making slashing movements. "No, no no. I said look, but never touch! You're ruining the experience for the audience! LIGHTS!" She screams as loud as her lungs will allow, and there is the loud CHUNG sound of someone throwing a heavy breaker. Behind Alexander and Byron where there was the side of the tent before is a series of bleachers filled with the bodies of all the neighbors and teachers and school kids Byron grew up with. All illuminated by the house lights being thrown on.

And they laugh. All the faces in the crowd, they laugh. Men and women with their families start jeering as they eat their popcorn and peanuts, watching the show as if the men have become part of the entertainment in the center ring.

"You! Always so NOSY!" The ringleader points a finger at Alexander as the two square off.

The Ringmaster is only trying to protect the greatest asset of her boss, and instead of focusing on Alexander, she gathers a great current of electricity from the overhead lights and it arcs from her fingertips to Byron, trying to toast him so they can get this show back on track.

Stephen with his overdrawn limbs and cheshire smile is instead treating Byron like the weakling he perceives his boy to be and instead throws another fireball at Alexander to get him to back off. "This is none of your conceeeeeeern." His voice rumbles low like a volcano ready to erupt.

With his sole focus on his father, Byron doesn't even notice the woman with the sparkly top hat. Nor does his father seem to take any notice of him. Perhaps the man's hatred for that Crazy Clayton Kid is what drives him to lash out at Alexander, but this shift, this movement by his father is what edges him away from his son's lunge. Not that Byron wasn't holding back in a sense. He would never dream of... no strike that, he would never dare lay a hand on his father. Stephen Thorne was growing more grotesque in appearance the longer that this performance went on. He was mutating, turning into the monster that his son believed that he was.

The sound of the cheers (or were they jeers?) distracts him, leaving Byron confronted by everyone he's ever known. Everyone he's ever lied to, pretended in front of. Tried to impress with his wit, his humor, his kindness. And his bravery; covering up all of those negative aspects of him that he was desperately trying to hide. Lilith was there... as was Tobin and his mother. Isabella. He felt embarrassed by all of it, to have his dark secret exposed in front of everyone.

All of this combined seems to leave him wide open to be struck by that shrieking harpy, feeling his body wracked with pain, starting from this pulsating pain within his head. He releases a sharp cry as he drops down to his knees, shaking his head in a daze. He knows that Clayton is in the distance somewhere, his eyes staring out in the other man's direction, "Go. Get out of here. This isn't your fight." This is none of your conceeeeeeern.

Alexander cries out in pain and anger as the fireball splashes on his skin, leaving red and furious burns. "You were never a very competent detective!" It is literally the worst insult Alexander can toss at Stephen Thorne, as sad as that sounds. But it's enough to distract him - his own burst of lightning goes wildly awry, and Byron drops to his knees under the onslaught of the Ringleader. "Fuck!" He scrambles towards Byron, ignoring the stands; he's used to being laughed at, after all. "Shut up, Byron," he says, and reaches out for the other man's head. He's no Lilith Winslow, and he rarely even tries to treat others, but what he can do, he tries to do now.

Those laughs. Those jeers. The noise is sharp and distorted, over-exaggerated just as the features of Byron's father. Perhaps in a way those people are monsters too, ignoring the pain in the young boy's eyes despite him putting on a dog and pony show to pretend that everything is alright. They're practically falling all over themselves as they clutch their stomachs or throw their circus snacks at the miasma of activity going on below.

As Bryon goes down, Stephen just shakes his head in a newfound reason for disappointment and his attention turns to the younger version as if going to finish the job. The Ringmaster however, isn't content to see Alexander helping his friend, and a spiderweb of electricity crackles off her fingers towards the man.

While not the most popular kid in school, Byron Thorne was well-liked enough. He did everything that he could to avoid just what was happening now, the laughter and ridicule coming from his peers. No, he won't look to their faces, not after seeing some of his closest friends in that laughing horde. In fact, for a time, all that he could do was close his eyes to shut the world out. Clear his mind. He used to do that a lot as a child, just so his father couldn't hear him. It's at this moment that Alexander is actually tending his wounds, giving him this temporary sense of calm. Everything was going to be okay.

Then he's awoken again, his eyes snapping open. They were still here. The dream had not released them from its grasp. While he doesn't voice it, there's a look given Alexander's way which may look apologetic or thankful that the man was there. Either way, he's dragging himself back up to stand, his eyes set on his father once more. "We need to get out of here."

Alexander curses extensively when the Ringleader's attack hits his arm, making it go temporarily numb. Of course, he doesn't actually need to touch Byron to clear away some of the damage from him, and his concentration doesn't break despite the pain. He catches that look, and there's a quick grin, bright and brief, like summer lightning. "Working on it," he says, wry, as he shakes out his arm and focuses on the Ringleader. "You are superfluous to requirements," he tells her, grimly, and starts stalking in that direction, his hands sparking, no longer trying to direct the irritatingly erratic current through the air. He just lunges at her, trying to put his hands on her body to feed the electricity directly into her soft tissues.

The shock of initially being confronted by his best forgotten past was slowly beginning to wane. Yes, being in the presence of his father might always be some of the worst memories in his life in reality, then there was the laughter that rung out loudly all around him. It's an odd thing that, it might be what Alexander Clayton experienced for most of his life, but what a young Byron had always ensured would never happen to him. That people wouldn't think he was crazy, or was a coward or that he came from a fucked up broken home. He was just a normal kid who would then grow to become a normal and successful adult. Though what his demons have presented to him now shows that wasn't as normal as he'd strive to be and his life was still broken and fucked up no matter how successful he was.

He was still suffering from the tingling and burning sensations from being electrocuted. Something which he, himself, dishes out to others. Byron was desperate now and in so much pain. Even if he had to drag himself forward to meet head-to-head with his father, he knew that he wanted to end this and relieve himself from this nightmare. "I realized my own potential far too late in life. But it helped put an end to you when I needed to stop you most of all." He's reflecting back on that last couple of months before his father's suicide. "If I can break away from you once, I can do it again." This swell of emotion, a turmoil of pain, anger, fear and hope grows within him as he feels the electricity coursing through his pained arm.

There's another crackle of electricity, and the bolt strikes Alexander in the chest - his already burnt chest. It staggers him in place, he hunches over in pain, and gasps as his heart does a stuttering double-skip beneath his ribs. Then he launches himself forward at the woman. This isn't personal; his demons are only tangential to the nightmare they've been thrown into, and if he's angry (and he is entirely angry), it's a reaction to the physical pain, and to the pain he senses from Byron more than it is anything the woman or any of the figments have done to him.

So, his touch is almost gentle when he lays his hand on her chest, just at her collarbone. Although the electricity that then courses through him into her body is not gentle at all.

His son is fighting back. Byron Thorne is fighting back against him. That alone is enough to give Stephen pause, his head tilting at a quizzical angle. He's about to open his mouth to say something, but all that comes out is a cackle of laughter. Laughter that is suddenly cut off when the bolt of electricity strikes his chest and launches him backwards into a sprawl of lanky limbs into the kitchen table, knocking over the chair and making the legs of the table crumple beneath the weight of the flung body.

"Byron, no!" Comes the shocked cry from his mother Mary as she rushes to aid her fallen husband with a clatter of her heels on the flooring.

"Monsieur?" The Ringmaster asks up at Alexander in a confused infinitesimal voice as the man approaches her despite her attacks and lays a soft hand on her tiny chest. But then her eyes fly wide and her body convulses violently before she crumples in a heap and her tophat goes rolling towards the audience.

And then? It all sort of starts to dissolve. The kitchen, the tent, the people? Everything turns into black little wisps of smoke that start curling up to a sky that no longer holds the golden moon. The last thing to be carried away are the dying notes of a phonograph.

If there were any second thoughts on Byron's part, any further fear in finally fighting back against his father in a physical sense, that was left behind once he realized that there was no turning back. His heart was racing, beating painfully within his chest the closer he got to Detective Stephen Thorne. Maybe it helped with the thought that this wasn't his father. If it were, things may have ended differently here. His arm drawn back, his muscle straining with this tightly closed fist all he can see was that monstrous smile to go with the insane cackling of laughter that now fills his ears. Make it stop.

He gives it all that he's got, thrusting his fist into his monster's chest, wanting to hear those bones crack the way his own father did to him. The blow spreads crackling sparks across the fallen's form as he is forced back to collapse with the kitchen table in a heap on the floor. Yet, Byron didn't feel triumphant as he loomed over the body of the thing that looked like Stephen Thorne, just as his mother rushed over to tend to her husband. What he did feel was safe. Something which he'd felt on the day that his father had died.

Turning away from his parents, he finally remembers Alexander there having dealt with the little Harpy. Then it all slowly began to fade. The carnival tent, the crowds, leaving them alone in the park together. It was an awkard moment, the sound of the old phonograph playing in his mind, but even that begins to fade. He looks as if he's about to speak, to address the other, but he's still racked with his own emotions to form words. This is how Easton must have felt yesterday, his past exposed to some... stranger. But Alexander Clayton wasn't exactly a stranger. For now, all he can muster is, "Thanks. For helping me get out of that mess."

If he's bothered by the woman's endearing final word, or the expression on her face as he pours electricity into her body, it doesn't show on Alexander's face. That's just a blank mask of concentration until she drops. He spins on his heel, only to see that Byron has already handled the figment of his father. Now his expression cracks, and there's another of those bright, fierce grins as the tent turns to smoke around them. He makes his way towards Byron. There's no attempt to clap him on the shoulder or anything like that, just an exhalation of relief as they seem to have been released back into the real world once again. "Don't worry about it." A pause. "I should have done it--" a grimace and the words stutter to a halt in his throat. He stands there, for a moment, awkward and swaying on his feet, casting about for something else to say that isn't a bunch of useless, late apologies. "At least it wasn't clowns?"