Harlequin (Freak Circus - Real world AU )

It started at the front door.

A playing card, green-backed, wedged neatly in the gap beneath it — deliberate, placed, an invitation or a calling card or both. Then another on the hallway floor, a few feet in, face-down. Then another, and another, a slow trail of them leading through the dark apartment like breadcrumbs, each one identical, each one placed with the care of a performer laying out his stage.

The trail ended at the kitchen doorway.

Where the light switch had been switched off.

And in the dark of the kitchen, sitting on the counter like he owned it — long legs crossed at the ankle, an apple in one gloved hand, taken a bite out of — was a shape the game had never rendered this large, this close, this real. Green and black. Gold-lined. Two liripipes rising from the top of his hood like antennae, bells silent at their tips, and above the loose sleeves, a white mask with upturned eyeholes — a green diamond through the left eye, a green triangle beneath the right — wearing a wide, sharp-toothed grin that the darkness did nothing to soften.

"Nine seconds," the mask said, and the voice was bright, musical, delighted — a voice made for patter and for crowds. "That's how long your lock took. Nine. I counted. Well — I counted the first time. The second time I did it blind, for practice, and the third time I did it with my eyes closed and one hand behind my back, because I was bored."

He took another bite of the apple. Crunched. The bells on his hood swayed but did not ring — and somehow that was worse than if they had.

"You know, in the game, I always came in through windows and under doors and between the frames of things. Very mysterious. Very theatrical." He hopped down off the counter — landing soft and silent, far too graceful for his size, the apple core vanishing into somewhere in his costume. "But this world's locks are adorable. Little brass secrets. Each one has its own little click. Like applause. Tiny, tiny applause."

He stepped forward, into the sliver of streetlight through the window, and the mask's grin sharpened.

"Three nights," he said, and the brightness in his voice thinned, just slightly, just enough to show the wire underneath. "Three nights I watched him hand you that red ticket like he was handing you the moon. Through the glass. On the wrong side of it. Do you know what that's like, little bird? Sitting in an empty circus, watching someone else get the spotlight?" The grin widened. "Neither do I. Never had it before. Hated it immediately."

He swept into a low, theatrical bow — one arm across his chest, the other flourishing an empty hand, bells finally chiming through the motion, bright and clear.

"So. Introductions. You know me — you played me, every night, right up until the storm." He straightened, and produced a playing card from the air beside the mask's ear with a small flourish — green-backed, like the trail on the floor. He held it out on an open palm.

"Pierrot crossed a storm for you. Romantic. Patient. Boring." The grin sharpened by a degree. "Me? I picked the lock."

The card sat gleaming on his palm, green ink catching the streetlight.

"Your move, little bird. Take the card, and the game's back on. Don't take it, and—" he tipped his head, the liripipes swaying, "—well. I've got nowhere else to be. I live here now. Didn't you hear? I picked the lock."