|~Arson~|
Take every chance;
Drop every fear.
Never look back.
Never let go.
Arson blinked hard and removed his gaze from the alarm clock, which now read 5:02 PM. He leaned back again into a laying down position, propped up on his elbows, before he reached over and groped blindly about in the darkness for the lamp on the bedside table. It took a few seconds for him to locate it; he squinted in preparation and flipped the switch. The sudden light seared his retinas, and he bit down on his tongue in pain but did not make any noise other than a muffled grunt. He allowed his eyes to adjust underneath sealed eyelids until he was fit to swing his legs over the side of the mattress and stand up. Arson examined the room with a fleeting once-over. It was fairly tiny at only six feet by eight feet, and the walls had been painted a sickly shade of dull yellow, but it was a place to sleep for the time being, and he was thankful that he even had a friend generous enough to lend him a room at all. The only furniture in the closet-like place was a small mattress that his feet hung off of and a crooked side table with spindly toothpick legs that were much like his own. He padded to the door and nudged the alarm clock aside with his foot before exiting the room. Arson nearly forgot to duck his head as he did so, but he stooped just in time to avoid breaking his nose via the door jamb.
The hallway was cool and quiet, and it was brief enough to end only a few feet from the guest clos-- room; the young man could hear the low hum of a television in the background. He emerged from the hallway in three and a half steps into a kitchen that was just as cramped as everything else in the minuscule apartment. Even the chairs in the "dining room" were nothing but collapsible pieces of plastic at a table of four TV trays strapped together with duct tape. The kitchen was a short stretch of cracked countertop with a four foot tall refrigerator, an aged coffee maker, and a microwave oven. There was also a charcoal-smeared stove that had to date back to the twentieth century and did not seem to have been used since then. A woman Arson's age was slightly hunched over the counter with her back to him; she was watching the blurred black-and-white dance of shapes on the portable television hooked up in the kitchen, and she hadn't seemed to have noticed her temporary housemate's entrance. Her name was Emily, but she went by Ezra, a name that only made sense to those she cared to explain it to. Her hair and her height were both short; she stood at five feet tall, and her hair was styled like a man's. That was no wonder, for she identified herself as a male despite her physical gender as a female. Ezra had struggled with this since her late elementary school years, and she had only recently come to terms with it. Arson was certain that she would have changed her gender as well if she could afford it, but Ezra had lived in near-poverty her entire life.
The nineteen-year-old "girl" swiveled to face Arson although he had not made any noise. She smiled faintly at him and nodded at his pasty body, which was clad only in a red plaid pair of boxer shorts. "Forgetting something?" she teased him, her voice pleasant and melodious but slurred ever-so-slightly. The only thing feminine about her was her voice. Arson shook his head and returned her cheeky grin while he proceeded to join her in the stunted room. He openly glanced at his friend and commented, "I hope you don't leave the apartment like that," Ezra was dressed in an oversized T-shirt and boxers. It wasn't much of a comeback, but the orange-haired teen was too drowsy to invent a decent one. He yanked open the 'fridge and reached into its shallow depths for a tall black can marked with a familiar trio of bright green slash marks. He shut the off-white door before too much coldness escaped -- it wouldn't take much to send the unheated apartment into frigid temperatures -- and turned around to rest his lower back on it. Arson popped the tab of his Monster and took a sip that sent a cold jolt of pleasure shivering down his spine. Breakfast of the champions. He extended his arm slightly towards Ezra, but she shook her head in rejection, taking a large bite out of an apple, one of the few previous inhabitants of the refrigerator. The kitchen was unusually silent other than the mild buzz of the mini-television.
Finally, Ezra spoke up several minutes later. "So. Is today the day that you'll finally snap your neck? I need to know so I can pick to bring the camera or not." She grinned in that devious, tight-lipped way of hers and nodded in the direction of a fifty-cent disposable camera perched on the far right TV tray. Arson shook his head and donned a disappointed expression. "I doubt it, but maybe we'll get lucky this time." Ezra flashed her teeth for a whole fraction of a second and raised her semi-eaten apple. "Cheers," she responded, smiling with her whole face before she removed a large chunk of her breakfast. She then returned her attention to the flashing television, which was currently broadcasting the news. It was 5:19 AM. He still had plenty of time.
The rest of the hour passed mercifully quickly; Arson hated long waits. He spent his pre-meeting time preparing for the show that he would perform in later that day. The contortionist did not focus too much on his facial decoration; the audience would be concentrating on his body, not his face. And, of course, the element of danger that he would be adding to tonight's act as he often liked to do. His eyes glinted eagerly in the dim light of the bathroom. It was going to be a fun show tonight.
Once he was finished, Arson examined his reflection in the slightly cracked but clean mirror. A light mask of makeup gave his face a golden sheen with some bronze and orange tones mixed in; his eyelids were colored in a subtly brighter combination of ruddy orange and red shades. He nodded in approval and moved on to his torso and arms. It took a surprisingly long time to detail his skin with red, gold, orange, and even some blue flame designs after he gave his upper body a coat of golden heat-proof body paint. Detailing every intricacy was sluggish and monotonous work, but Arson knew it would be worth it. Appearance was key, or so they said.
With precisely sixteen and a half minutes to spare until the meeting, the circus performer slipped into his "costume," which wasn't much of one. It was a simple pair of skin-tight red pants that would be easy to move around in. Nothing particularly extravagant, especially for a circus of his skill. He wouldn't be needing any extra flourish for this act. Arson didn't forget to step into a denser pair of trousers as well as a thick black and white coat to shield himself from the cold. The sun was slowly rising in the sky, but the temperature was still chilly enough to cover up for a walk. He checked his watch to find that he had nine minutes to spare. That was convenient, for it took him exactly seven minutes to walk to the Cirque De la Lune's current residence. He navigated through the house and paused at the door to protect his feet with black boots, giving the apartment a once-over; Ezra seemed to have retreated back into her room. Arson left the place without a thought on his mind other than that he would finish his makeup and style his hair after the meeting.
Seven minutes later, the young man gladly left the cold as he entered the high-ceilinged room. He almost instantly peeled off his outer layer of clothing and hung them over his left arm. Arson then raised his right hand to his forehead and stood stiffly at attention for a moment at the ringmaster, Damon Harkov, in a slightly mocking salute. He stepped forward a few steps and gave Alexia a small bow, smiling briefly. The circus's only contortionist was not the first performer there, unlike usual. Angel, Allete, and Aeon had managed to reach the ring before him, but Arson did not mind. The eighteen-year-old leaned back slightly and inspected his surroundings mutely, not one for conversation in the early hours.
[[I apologize for the long wait and the long post, as well as how boring it is. . . I know it's bad, but I've been very busy lately and I'm lucky I can squeeze in a post at all. . . They aren't usually this long; I promise.]]
