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[thestrangerspobox]

It’s an off year, I’m afraid, else I wouldn’t have been able to come up to visit.

The Troupe’s all scattered about, as far south as Peru and as far east as St Petersburg, but I’ll be sure to add Quebec to our next list of tour locations. We’re due to meet up soon so next summer, maybe, or fall.

[Nobody knocks on the Archivist‘s door.]

Hello, Mx. Archivist! I’ve brought that gift I promised.

~@thestrangerspobox

Oh, how delightful!

Do sit down, I can’t wait to hear what tale you’ve brought me :)

[thestrangerspobox]

[Nobody carefully lays the colorful denim jacket that he wore during his first visit out on the Archivist’s desk, smoothing the fabric out with reverent hands. His fingers settle on the three overlapping golden rings centered on the back, large and bordered by little accents of red, orange, and white.]

This jacket was a gift from the first friend I made after I Became. He went by something different back then, but my Troupe calls him Aphasia.

Aphasia was part of the Circus. He performed with them long before I did and stayed long after, but he looked out for me while I was there. This [he taps the jacket] was given to me after I left, for the hundredth anniversary of my Becoming. I’m surprised it‘s lasted so long, if I’m being honest. Which is something I’m sure you’d appreciate.

[Nobody chuckles, almost as if just to himself.]

He was the kind of Stranger that liked to be in the thick of everything, to have his hands shoved directly into the swarming chaos. He teased me for being the opposite—for preferring to be on the sidelines or backstage rather than center stage, for being the sort to sit back and observe rather than act, for being more of a director or narrator than I ever was an actor. He called me the Ringmaster, because of that.

He was right, of course.

Needless to say, we’re still quite close. He visits me every few years, finding where the Troupe is performing or tracking me down through one of the more stationary members.

It was after Aphasia found out that Troupe members had been adding things to my jacket that he made his own addition—this.

[Nobody shifts the sleeve, showing the Archivist the Circus Tent patch on the jacket’s shoulder.]

The triplets came next. Eerie, Mysterious, and Mundane, although those weren’t their names yet.

Those three aren’t related— they look nothing alike—but they sure act like it. They’re practically inseparable.

They ran with the Circus for a few months, but they’re roamers at heart. They could never bear to stay in one setting for too long. When they left, I went with them.

We wandered the Americas, having fun terrorizing locals and travelling occasionally with the triplets’ other friends. Those three really know how to party, both throwing and crashing them, so there was never a dull moment.

[He shifts the jacket to show the three braided cords sewn under the front pocket—red, yellow, and blue but otherwise identical.]

These were Myst’s idea. A memento of sorts, for when our paths diverged.

I was still with the triplets when Monique made her grand appearance.

That wasn’t her name yet, mind you. She was an actor at the time, a creature of the Stage just as much as one of stolen names. That was her forte—stealing the identity of popular people, having victims with so many that might notice they’d been Replaced.

When she joined us we had a group eight strong, and packed with Strangers that had the stuff of Performers. So, when she suggested we take to the Stage, that we take up acting, we all agreed.

She gave me this patch.

[He taps a pair of theater masks sitting under the circus tent.]

Monique can’t use a needle to save her life, and neither can I, so I had to ask Myst to sew it on for me.

Those little Performances Monique put on is what drew Mnemosyne to us.

[His voice is an odd mix of fondness and disdain.]

It was the first among the others that wasn’t solidly Stranger. The Masks and the Madness both, lies and truth in an awful, headache-inducing way.

Mnemosyne gleefully offered its little special effects in exchange for a place on our Stage. The rest of my Troupe didn’t have a problem with it joining, and I was outnumbered.

We get along much better now than we did before—[Nobody winks, the viscous black liquid pooling in his sclera forcing its way past his eyelid to dribble down his cheek]—but it still took decades for me to warm up enough to let it add its mark to the jacket.

[He gestures vaguely to the twisting mass of vines and thorns and roses that weren’t roses that spanned the bottom of the back of his jacket, taking up almost as much space as the rings.]

I have a grudging respect for it now, and it’s more family than not, but it’s still the person with the best chance of making me hear the beat of the Drums.

We found our next member in Spring… some year during the Great Depression, I think.

We were all still together, save for Aphasia, and Monique had moved on to a human that wanted to join the troupe, not knowing what we were. Some other friends had come and gone, but the core was still there when we found the Mannequin.

She had Become a few days ago, or at least finished the long, drawn out process of the inanimate Becoming animate. She hardly understood what had happened, could barely conceptualize anything beyond the need for fear.

She longed for a name, for something of her own to center herself around, so we obliged.

The Troupe all sat down and started throwing out suggestions, and she chose Proverbial.

It was… fun, in a way, and Proverbial wanted to pay us back for the favor we had given her, so everyone who didn’t object to a Name of their own, something that persisted even as we shuck aside Masks and Identities, something just for friends, was gifted one.

I sacrificed the name I had been born with when I Became, had been nothing except the Ringmaster, a title on par with Dynomia’s “the Puppet” or Proverbial’s ”the Mannequin,” for more than a Century, but I quite like Nobody. An identity based around a lack of identity. Fitting, isn’t it?

Mnemosyne came with its own Name, one it had picked for itself and was very keen on keeping, and Monique prefered the names of those she replaced, but by then we each had a word to call our own.

Proverbial has stayed with us since then, always traveling with the Troupe when we’re together and staying with either the twins or myself during the off seasons.

[Nobody’s smile is fond as his fingers brush over the lotus flower stitched to one of the front pockets.]

This one was hers.

[He’s quiet for a few moments while he finds the next patch, an ouroboros that sat just below the left chest pocket. The black oozes down his cheeks.]

And this one was for Janus.

She was more Twister of Flesh than Creature of Masks, an artist in her own right. She didn’t take to the Stage with the rest of us, prefered to stick to the sidelines and spread her own brand of fear.

Janus…

[He swallows.]

Janus changed what people looked like, made them unrecognizable to themselves and to their loved ones.

She wasn’t very careful when she picked her victims, tormenting whoever she felt like in the moment.

And that had been her downfall.

She chose someone close to a creature of fear. A being of the Dirt, of the Deep, of the Too Much Too Close. They dragged her so far under the earth that the pressure crushed her remains, smothered the very life out of her, and returned her to us in a coffin covered in bows and ribbons and dirt.

Janus didn’t live long enough to participate in either of the traditions. To hear the Name we chose for her, or add her own mark to the jacket.

[His hand moves to cover the patch, blocking it from the Archivist’s view. Nobody takes a few deep breaths to steady himself.]

It’s all uphill from there, don’t worry.

[His laugh is dry and wanting for amusement.]

Deja and James, the lights of my life and eternal annoyances usurped only by Mnemosyne itself.

They were friends of friends, people that ran in the same circles yet that happenstance had kept me from meeting before that day almost fifty years ago.

The two were paramours, lovers, bound together by their own will. Quite the act to follow, the decades of history between them.

I was the one who suggested their names, initially. Deja and John, the perpetually familiar and the as of yet unnamed. They thought my suggestions were amusing, so they took them both on.

John was by no stretch a Performer, not even before he became James, but Deja loves the attention. She played the most important roles along with Monique and Mnemosyne, thrived in the center of that limelight. I remember the first time I saw them on stage, passion in their eyes and purpose in their movements. I fell in love then, and I spent the next two decades head over heels for her.

I tried to keep my feelings hidden, since he was already with James, but apparently I wasn’t too subtle. The two invited me to tag along on one of their date nights, and we hit it off. I grew even more enamored with Deja, and John has long since proven himself very charming.

It’s been nice, having people I’m not afraid to bare my soul to, to share all my thoughts and fears with. I’ve had relationships before, flings and whatever it is you call Mnemosyne, but it’s different having people that you’ve known that way for years, on a level so intimate in so many ways.

Their addition came long before we ever knew each other like that, but they’ve added onto it since.

[Nobody shows the Archivist the blue and violet embroidery on one sleeve cuff. There’s a simple band of the two colors twisting together, and above it dances a pattern of hearts and swirls and slashes. Yellow circles sit in places of honor, at the center of twists and turns.]

And then you know Dysnomia, of course.

[He picks up the other sleeve, this cuff decorated by forget-me-nots sewn over a tangle of fuchsia foliage.]

I’d heard about the little Stranger from some acquaintances. So young, yet so eager.

We met properly… oh, a little over a decade ago? While it was Renaldo. It had just gotten injured, a torn rotator cuff that wouldn’t—couldn’t—heal on its own. We helped it put in the new joint, and Dysnomia decided to stay.

It seemed to slot into our group effortlessly, thriving on the Stage and amongst its fellow Strangers. It left to return to its Music after a year or two with the promise to visit, to keep in touch. It showed up for the last family reunion, and it writes to me every so often. I’ve heard about you, about Ripley, about the others. Dysnomia’s built up the start of a little support system. I’m glad to see that it’s been doing well here, just outside of where my people tend to be.

[Nobody pulls the jacket back towards him, slipping it back on.]

But yes, that is my Troupe. A lovely little group I’ve built, isn’t it?

If you have any more questions, I’ll answer what I can. It’d be hypocritical of me to deny you your curiosity, Mx. Archivist.

[Nobody knocks on the Archivist‘s door.]

Hello, Mx. Archivist! I’ve brought that gift I promised.

~@thestrangerspobox

Oh, how delightful!

Do sit down, I can’t wait to hear what tale you’ve brought me :)

[thestrangerspobox]

[Dysnomia clamming up and ignoring something was far from a new sight. Nobody had seen it several times with the old Mask, with the color green, with some of the people they‘d met when they performed together.]

[He didn’t comment on it, just oohed and ahed over the different patterned fabrics his friend thought suited him.]

[Nobody would ask about its voice later, after he’d recapped the half decade of family drama and life events Dysnomia had missed, after it finished tugging him around to get his measurements for whatever shirt it was going to fashion out of that fabric, after they’d both had some time to relax.]

[A completely unimpressionable man leaves the Archives, hands in the pockets of his embroidered jacket. He smiles and nods to all he passes, and is almost immediately forgotten by each and every one of them.]

[thestrangerspobox]

These new ones are very nice—very you. Adelaide fits you very well.

[His eyes find the bag buried under all the others, dusty and unlabeled.]

I see you still have John Doe. Have you figured out who it belongs to yet?

[A completely unimpressionable man leaves the Archives, hands in the pockets of his embroidered jacket. He smiles and nods to all he passes, and is almost immediately forgotten by each and every one of them.]

[thestrangerspobox]

I am as well, but three decades and they still haven’t broken up with me so either I’m doing something right or they’re both fools.

But never mind my love life. How are things as Adelaide? Has Canada been treating you well?

[A completely unimpressionable man leaves the Archives, hands in the pockets of his embroidered jacket. He smiles and nods to all he passes, and is almost immediately forgotten by each and every one of them.]

[thestrangerspobox]

[He laughs as Dysnomia spins him—being short was definitely a blessing, in this case. Or at least having friends half a foot taller than him was.]

[His expression falters when Dysnomia pulls out the notepad in lieu of talking, but the smile is back on his face before it turns the notepad to him.]

Of course you haven’t ceased to use that nickname. I’ve told you that my name isn’t a reference, and yet. And yet.

[He hammed up the last few words, and the hand that came up to cover Dysnomia’s quiet snort of amusement more than worth the theatrics.]

But everyone is doing fantastic! I was visiting Deja and James when I heard about your Dance—a Dance I rather wish you’d invited me to! I would have loved to see your first proper Ritual.

[A completely unimpressionable man leaves the Archives, hands in the pockets of his embroidered jacket. He smiles and nods to all he passes, and is almost immediately forgotten by each and every one of them.]

[thestrangerspobox]

[His destination is a small Theater a few minutes away. Twisting art deco, peeling old paint, faded curtains.]

[He grins at the person that hurries out from the office to greet him—a real smile, not one of the small ones without any teeth that he offered to the people he passed on the way here.]

[A completely unimpressionable man leaves the Archives, hands in the pockets of his embroidered jacket. He smiles and nods to all he passes, and is almost immediately forgotten by each and every one of them.]

[thestrangerspobox]

[A completely unimpressionable man leaves the Archives, hands in the pockets of his embroidered jacket. He smiles and nods to all he passes, and is almost immediately forgotten by each and every one of them.]

[thestrangerspobox]

Oh, I have many. I’ll bring one for you before I leave.

And if you meet any Strangers, feel free to send them my way. I normally stick to the states, but throwing a wider net never hurt anyone.

[He leaves, and the feeling that this meeting was completely unimportant lingers in his wake.]

((No need to answer this for a little bit.))

[A completely unremarkable man steps into the Archives. Bright blue eyes behind sunglasses, tan skin, tousled brown curls. He is slightly below average height, with piercings dotting his ears and wearing a heavy jean jacket covered in colorful embroidery. His smile is friendly and plain as he knocks on the Archivist’s door.]

[Nothing in particular seems to stick out about him. He’s almost too normal, to the point of being unsettling.]

[When you look at him, however—really Look at him—you can spot the long blue hair tied at the nape of his neck, the almost glowing yellow iris of one eye and the unnatural paleness of the other, the viscous black oozing from his sclera, the uncountable number of teeth.]

Greetings, my friend! I hope you’re not too busy at current?

~@thestrangerspobox

Why, hello there, aren’t you a fascinating Sight. I do hope my Gaze doesn’t burn too much; Strangers sometimes complain…

Lovely to meet you, Nobody. I believe we have a friend in common :)

[thestrangerspobox]

Oh, no need to worry, I’m more suited to being Seen than most.

It is a please to meet you as well, Mx Archivist! Our friend has told me about you. All good things, worry not.

I heard about that little Dance—it sounds just like the sort of event Nome would put on, blood and all. It is a shame I missed it, I would have liked to see a place like this under the Dizzying Spotlight.

[He winks, and the black crawls further down his face.]

I just wanted to stop by and introduce myself, see what sorts of friends Dysnomia is making up here before I pay it a visit. Maybe next time I’ll even be told before the Party, and I can make it up here in time for the festivities.

((No need to answer this for a little bit.))

[A completely unremarkable man steps into the Archives. Bright blue eyes behind sunglasses, tan skin, tousled brown curls. He is slightly below average height, with piercings dotting his ears and wearing a heavy jean jacket covered in colorful embroidery. His smile is friendly and plain as he knocks on the Archivist’s door.]

[Nothing in particular seems to stick out about him. He’s almost too normal, to the point of being unsettling.]

[When you look at him, however—really Look at him—you can spot the long blue hair tied at the nape of his neck, the almost glowing yellow iris of one eye and the unnatural paleness of the other, the viscous black oozing from his sclera, the uncountable number of teeth.]

Greetings, my friend! I hope you’re not too busy at current?

~@thestrangerspobox

Why, hello there, aren’t you a fascinating Sight. I do hope my Gaze doesn’t burn too much; Strangers sometimes complain…

Lovely to meet you, Nobody. I believe we have a friend in common :)