Chapter Text
The lights poured down onto the wooden stage, where only one person stood- Artful, performing before a crowd. He stood tall and confident, a spark of pride in his posture, the kind that would usually intrigue anyone. Unfortunately, not this crowd. Dozens of bored faces stared back as the magician performed his “fake” tricks, not impressive enough to truly entertain or amaze them.
Artfull swung his wand, conjuring a plastic golden egg into his hand. He held it up gracefully before the audience, twisting and twirling it to show that there was nothing else there but the egg itself.
“Now, mes amis, right before your eyes, I’ll make it come to life!” he announced.
He then removed his hat and placed the egg inside. With a spin of his finger and a cheerful “allez hop!”, he tossed the hat into the air. It flipped upside down, its brim facing the ceiling- and in the very next second, a dark, blackish rooster with shimmering feathers leapt out of it. It hopped onto the stage and let out a triumphant crow before darting into the rows of the audience and disappearing from sight.
The hat landed gracefully back onto Artful’s head. He gave a small bow, peering out from beneath the brim to study the audience, hoping at last to see some admiration or surprise. Instead, he was met with an angry face in the front row staring directly at him.
“Really? A freakin’ rooster? What are ya, a farmer now?! Since when do magicians use roosters instead of pigeons?”
Artful froze for a moment, forcing himself to keep smiling as it grew harder and harder to hold. He glanced at the man, who had now stood up and started booing him. It didn’t take long before others began to join in.
Was it not enough? This was the twentieth trick he had performed on this stage, and it still wasn’t enough? Such behaviour toward a true magician, and not just any magician, but Artful, who had tried his best and worked tirelessly to make sure his performance reached its peak. Even when performing the simplest tricks, he poured his time into improving, only to be treated like this? To be treated as a joke?
Artful slowly straightened up from his bow, raising his hands in front of him in an attempt to calm the crowd. But the boos and complaints only grew louder, swelling over his voice as he tried to reason with them.
“Now now, I still have a few tricks up my sleeves! Maybe one of them will be to your taste-”
He didn’t even get the chance to finish before something struck him square in the face.
A banana peel. A disgusting banana peel. Artful slowly took it by the tip and stared at it in shock. A few more followed, flying toward him and smacking against his suit, leaving stains and littering the stage. The first feeling was shock. The second was confusion. And the third was burning, rising rage. He deserved better. He deserved a better audience, one that could truly respect him and see his potential. But this?! This was unacceptable!
He gritted his teeth, fingers curling into a fist, while his other hand gripped the wand so tightly it looked as if it might snap. The shouting continued, louder, harsher and with every passing second, Artful saw less and less. He didn’t see anymore, he only felt. And what he felt was anger, deep and boiling.
The room began to blur into one chaotic pond of noise. Half the audience screamed and jeered, while the other half stared in stunned silence at what was happening. A few rushed to stop the ones throwing banana peels, insisting things had gone too far.
Among them was a young girl clutching a doll to her chest. Her wide, terrified eyes darted from the furious crowd to the man on stage. She had never seen an audience act like this, not to this extent, ever! She felt so bad for her favourite magician, who was now getting harassed for nothing! Her small voice rose above the chaos, pleading for them to stop, joined by a handful of other reasonable civilians. But it was useless.
Then the shouting faltered a bit as a familiar voice boomed from the stage once again.
“So… you want to see a real magic trick?” Artful spat, his words dripping with malice and rage. A few people froze mid-throw. “So be it. For my next trick… I shall make the citizens of Robloxia vanish!”
He swung his wand through the air, carving a fast circular motion that left the crowd blinking in confusion. A few seconds passed, and then the first row erupted into screams of horror.
The loudest hecklers, including the man who had started the booing, suddenly stiffened. Before anyone could understand what was happening, they collapsed forward, their bodies transformed into lifeless wooden puppets that hit the floor with dull, hollow thuds.
Faces drained of colour. Gasps filled the air. But none were as pale as Artfull himself, his face painted white with his makeup, as he leapt down from the stage with another furious swing of his wand. More people turned to puppets in an instant.
Some weren’t as “lucky.” They were dragged by their collars and struck across the face, blood splattering across the carpeted aisle as the performance turned into a nightmare.
Multiple civilians began running for their lives, while others tried desperately to stop the magician and his sudden outburst, but they were all met with the same fate, caught in the crossfire of his blind rage.
The girl watched the scene unfold with glassy eyes. The magician was doing all of this without a hint of hesitation. A tear gathered in the corner of her eye, trembling but never falling, as fear froze her voice in her throat. But maybe… maybe he could stop. Maybe she could convince him to stop. She had to try.
She hurried toward the magician, who still had his back turned to her — busy beating a man to a bloody pulp. The floor around him was littered with wooden dolls and echoing screams. She finally gathered the strength to speak, her voice trembling. “Artful, p-please stop-”
She didn’t get the chance to finish. Before she could even breathe, she stopped in place. Artful’s wand was pointed directly at her. He didn’t even glance in her direction as he repeated the same motion he had used on others. And then, suddenly, she couldn’t feel her legs. Or her arms. The sensation of losing herself crept up from her chest to her head, until her world faded completely. She collapsed onto the cold floor, her own doll lying beside her.
It took several minutes before Artful finally turned around. When he did, his eyes fell upon the small puppet on the ground, its familiar bow and clothing unmistakable. He froze, a sharp, panicked breath tore from his lungs, so sudden that it felt as though he might tear his own lungs apart. His eyes locked on the doll in horrified realisation. The rage that had consumed him vanished in an instant, replaced by raw fear, denial and regret.
He dropped the man he had been pummeling unconscious, or perhaps already dead, and stumbled forward. His knees hit the floor as he reached out with trembling hands, desperate to pick up the puppet. But he stopped short. Reality slammed back into him, bringing with it a nauseating churn in his stomach and a crushing weight in his chest that pinned him to the spot, making him feel sick. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t even breathe.
Artful was now surrounded by silence. The entire theatre lay still, bodies and wooden puppets scattered everywhere. And among them, right beneath him, was the one person he knew better than anyone… lying motionless, her young life cut short for nothing.
A trembling breath escaped him, broken and shallow. What had he done? His hands slowly rose to cover his face and eyes, as if he could shield himself from the horror of his own disgusting actions.
Twigs snapped beneath his steps as he circled through a fairly bushy area, carefully watching where he placed his feet while searching for berries to gather and eat later. The forest enveloped him in a comforting silence, broken only by the occasional chirp of birds hopping from branch to branch, singing and calling to one another. Artful looked up to see a woodpecker staring back at him before returning to its work, hammering into the tree to make a small nest. He shook his head slightly and continued scanning for edible fruits and berries.
He was far from any nearby village, far enough that he wouldn’t be found by accident. It had been several weeks since he went into hiding, keeping away from the consequences of his… incident. So far, he had ventured into a village only once, to buy supplies he couldn’t find in the forest, carefully removing his makeup to blend in, though the fear of being caught lingered just as strongly as in the beginning.
Artful clenched his jaw uncomfortably and turned his gaze toward his new “home,” about a hundred feet away, a small shack he had built using a mix of his magical abilities and construction knowledge. At least for now, the skills he had picked up as a construction worker, long before he became a magician, were proving useful. As he slowly made his way toward it, eyes still scanning the underbrush for anything edible, a flash of color caught his attention.
He knelt and peered closer, and was met with a pleasant sight: clusters of reddish berries glistening under the rays of the setting sun. He carefully picked them one by one until he had about fifteen, placing them into a handkerchief he had recently started using for his berry scavenging.
“That should do the trick for now,” he mumbled, half-whispering as he got back to his feet. With a handful of berries in hand, he slowly stumbled toward the shack once more. When he reached it, he quickly opened the door, stepped inside, and closed it behind him, trying to make as little noise as possible. The shack was simple but sturdy, good enough for actual living, though comfort was still lacking. A small wooden table sat in the middle, with a chair beside it. A few leftover fruits rested in a bowl on the table; lately, everything Artful ate consisted mostly of fruits and the bare minimum. He sighed in disappointment and set the berries down next to the few he had gathered previously.
On the opposite side of the chair stood a mirror, which he used to reapply his makeup after that trip to the village, although over time, he had grown sick of even looking at himself.
He turned away and dropped onto his bed without caring if the impact hurt his back. “Bed” was generous; it was a little more than a pile of leaves he’d stuffed into a makeshift sack, with a single real pillow as its only comfort. Staring up at the ceiling, he slowly removed his face mask and hat, setting them beside him before covering his eyes with his arm.
Stop thinking. Stop caring. But how could he?
A deep frown cut across his face. The chaos. The screams. They looped in his head, over and over. How could he ever forgive himself? How could anyone? A mistake. A grave mistake. One that had cost him everything. Headlines flashed in his mind: news articles, magazines, all plastered with the same words, “Last Performance.” He dragged his hand from his face and turned to the side, staring at nothing. Maybe he should turn himself in. But then what? Prison? Years behind bars? The humiliation of looking his family in the eyes after what he’d done? Or worse… a death sentence? He trembled at the thought. Artful shifted uncomfortably, trying to stop the relentless train of thoughts. He squeezed his eyes shut harder with each passing moment, until suddenly… sounds. Nearby sounds.
He sprang up from the bed, half-sitting, alert. Who could possibly be in the middle of the forest at sunset? His hand shot to the mask, pressing it back over his face. The hat lay nearby; he snatched it up and secured it on his head. Slowly, cautiously, he rose to his feet, ears straining for any sound. At first, he thought maybe looking out the window would be a better idea. But… he didn’t know who or what might be out there. Risking his own safety would be foolish. After all, he was far too noticeable with all the makeup on.
The sounds were getting closer, close enough that Artful began to recognize voices. Civilians, and a few of them, maybe around three or four. No doubt about that. But… what on earth were they doing here? He’d been living here for nearly a week or two without being noticed, and without noticing anyone else. His fingers slid into the inside of his vest, gripping his wand tightly.
-“He has to be here somewhere. There’s even a shack.”
-“Are you sure? Like, really sure? This is one hell of a place to stay, or even live. There’s literally nothing around! And this looks like crap! We wasted, what, two hours getting here!”
-“Exactly why he should be here. Think about it, who in their right mind would go somewhere like this for a walk? Besides, that lady said he went toward the forest in this exact direction.”
-“So you trust someone blindly now? That’s so unlike you.”
-“Hey! We’re here for the bounty in the first place, remember? And it wouldn’t hurt to try. She said she recognized him… saw him once without makeup after one of his performances or something.”
“Fils de pute! C’est la catastrophe!” Artful’s eyes snapped open. His hand shot out, banging on the door in a blind, angry reflex, but he jerked it back instantly. The voices fell silent, whispering something unintelligible, though the sound of approaching footsteps confirmed they were heading toward the shack. He backed away from the door and pressed himself against the side, hidden from view, heart hammering. A smart move, because the next second, the door creaked open slowly. A few metallic clicks echoed, the sound of a rifle or revolver being loaded. Artful’s breath grew shallow, slow as he attempted not to make any noise or sound. Today was definitely not the day he wanted a bullet in his head!
The next few minutes stretched on, though they felt like hours. Nobody moved. Then a click. The door shifted slightly toward him. That was his signal.
Shots rang out, striking the door parallel to where he stood. Artful reacted instantly, conjuring a wall of magic that sprang up between him and the civilians. The splintering wood of his shack behind him barely registered before he destroyed it completely and leapt out.
He landed face-to-face with the ones hunting him. Two wore cowboy hats; another looked like some kind of medic. Their faces were pale, eyes wide. He remembered that look. Just like last time, they were still hunting him. Artful’s gaze flicked to the other two, busy reloading their revolvers.
A drop of sweat slid down his cheek. The air suddenly felt thick and heavy in his throat, like it didn’t want him to breathe. His right hand, gripping the wand, shook uncontrollably. What should he do? He couldn’t let them escape; they would tell the others where he was. Or worse… if they caught him here, he could be arrested instantly. He couldn’t let that happen. He simply couldn’t.
Shots rang out again. One bullet sliced past his face, so close it burned the air beside his skin. Another slammed into his shoulder, knocking him backward. The sensation buzzed through his whole body, tingling, disorienting. He didn’t even register it at first, not until a thin stream of blood trickled down his arm, hot and metallic, staining his white sleeve red. There was no pain at first, only numbness and then a sharp, burning throb.
Seconds later, he swung his wand, pupils constricted, locking eyes with the man across from him. A wall erupted beneath the shooter, slamming into his spine and drawing a pained growl. With another desperate flick, a music box materialized beside their heads. It began to play, but instead of a gentle melody, a shrieking, unbearable noise screamed from it, so piercing it made their ears bleed. They collapsed to the ground, clawing at the sides of their heads to block it out.
Artful stared at the chaos he’d unleashed, breath ragged, chest heaving like he was starving for air. He coughed, trying to steady himself, trying to calm the unpleasant feeling surging through his body. He couldn’t look at them. It was their fault. It was them who’d come here in the first place. He’d isolated himself on purpose. So why was he still the one at fault? They forced him to do that!
He wished they would just disappear.